It's not easy getting old, you know. Things become a lot less clear.

As a result of manifest destiny, we gutted our resources.

I'll never stop caring. But the thing about caring is, it's inconvenient. Sometimes you've got to give when it makes no sense to at all. Sometimes you've got to give until it hurts.

My neediness is not a hole to be filled but something beneath the skin scratching to get out.

I know I've lost my mind. But I'm not concerned, because it's the first thing I've lost in a long time that actually feels good.

I usually write in my underwear, with a space heater running full blast, and three dogs sleeping at me feet.

Can we really be whoever we want to be, now that we’ve collected all that we are?