Why do you write?' Because I love words and stories so much. Because I would be grief stricken every day of my life if I couldn't write. Because I'm obsessed and compelled. Because I'd be utterly useless at anything else.

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

The more obscure our tastes, the greater the proof of our genius.

When you can write music that endures, bravo. Until then, keep quiet and study the work of those who can.

Why do you write?' Because I love words and stories so much. Because I would be grief stricken every day of my life if I couldn't write. Because I'm obsessed and compelled. Because I'd be utterly useless at anything else.

You are a ghost, Andi," she says. "Almost gone." I look at her. I want to say something but I can't get the words out. She squeezes my hands. "Come back to us," she says. And she's gone.

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