I thought you hung the moon.

I still think that maybe the "afterlife" is just something we made up to ease the pain of loss, to make our time in the labyrinth bearable. Maybe we are just matter, and matter gets recycled

As a child I was an inveterate liar. As opposed to now, I am a Novelist.

Every paper girl needs at least one string.

While I did not fancy myself a particularly good person, I never thought my first real sexual action would be prostitutional.

And on the last day, the bad days become so difficult to recall, because one way or another, she had made a life here, just as I had. The town was paper, but the memories were not. All the things I’d done here, all the love and pity and compassion and violence and spite, kept welling up inside me.

Sometimes you lose a battle. But mischief always wins the war