This is, I believe, what happens when people take their own lives. They're not killing themselves, they're killing the world. Either to spare it pain or to cause it some, depending.

Rumi will transform you, in ways you didn’t know you needed transforming.

Heroin spread that soft blanket over everything. But once the blanket was ripped off, it took a layer of skin with it, leaving nothing but nerve ends screaming in the breeze.

Nothing ever turns me on so much in a woman as unhappiness.

All my life I'd gone for women who were a little off.

I think it's just too kinda juicy and compelling to imagine people in their private lives, but then half the time people's private lives are just so much more bizarre and Ted Haggard-like than you could ever imagine. It's almost hard to write fiction anymore.

How do you write when you're not miserable? The solution, of course, is to make yourself miserable about not writing.