I don't know what you believe in. I believe we just stop. Because if we move on to an afterlife, any kind of afterlife, that means there will be other people there. I'm tired of the chit chat. Oh, that is a handsome boy. He takes after his grandfather. Did they change the breakfast again? It tastes different to me. For Eternity? No thanks.

I'd rather die terrified than live forever.

Dear Nintendo, We need a new Mario game, where you rescue the princess in the first ten minutes, and for the rest of the game you try and push down that sick feeling in your stomach that she’s ‘damaged goods’, a concept detailed again and again in the profoundly sex negative instruction booklet, and when Luigi makes a crack about her and Bowser, you break his nose and immediately regret it. When Peach asks you, in the quiet of her mushroom castle bedroom ‘do you still love me?’ you pretend to be asleep. You press the A button rhythmically, to control your breath, keep it even.

Depression is like slashing at ghosts. Of course it's tempting to finally cut something real.

Home is where the heart is, until we get a chance to bury it. Home is where the heart pulled the nails out of its feet, and fled.

Art isn't just paint and music, art is breaking glass and the sounds we make without realizing.

I feel the way bank robbers must feel before they go out on that last job that ends up getting them all killed. That is to say, optimistic.