But what if you discover that the price of purpose is to render invisible so many other things?

I find myself in this bizarre position in which everything I write and talk about is pretty much about this issue, the environment. It feels a little too comfortable, because at the end of the day I can rationalize that I'm doing my share. I don't know if I actually am, I don't know if I should be more of an activist than I am. But at the end of the day, everybody needs to do those things that they're most likely to continue doing, and that aren't going to burn them out.

That's how the madness of the world tries to colonize you: from the outside in, forcing you to live in its reality.

Film fixes a precise visual image in the viewer's head. In fiction, you just hope you're precise enough to convey the intended effect.

You can either waste time worrying about a death that might not come or concentrate on what’s left to you.

Silence creates it's own violence.

When they give you things, ask yourself why. When you're grateful to them for giving you the things you should have anyway, ask yourself why.