Who needs make-believe monsters when there are so many real ones.

Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.

We're not punished for our sins, lad. We're punished by them.

She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.

The guitar's still around me. I slip it off and put it down. I want to feel him. To feel his breath on my neck. The warmth of his skin. To feel something other than sadness. Hold me, I tell him silently. Hold me here. To this place. This life. Make me want you. Want this. Want something. Please

Who needs make-believe monsters when there are so many real ones.

Cry your grief to God. Howl to the heavens. Tear your shirt. Your hair. Your flesh. Gouge out your eyes. Carve out your heart. And what will you get from Him? Only silence. Indifference. But merely stand looking at the playbills, sighing because your name is not on them, and the devil himself appears at your elbow full of sympathy and suggestions. And that's why I did it....Because God loves us, but the devil takes an interest.