Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.

There is a ghost here. A lonely, heartbroken spirit. The ghost of everything that could've been and never was.

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

One expects decent people to stand up for the good of all. Decent people shut their doors and hide behind them as decent people do. Massacres could never happen if it weren't for decent people.

A new word. Bright with possibilities. A flawless pearl to turn over and over in my hand, then put away for safekeeping.

Writers are damned liars. Every single one of them.

Why is it that weeks and months and years go by so quickly, all in a blur, but moments last forever?