Even under the best of circumstances, there's just something so damn tragic about growing up.

We are injured and angry, scared and sad. Some families, like some couples, become toxic to each other after prolonged exposure.

At some point, being angry is just another bad habit, like smoking, and you keep poisoning yourself without thinking about it.

You can do everything differently in a novel. Hero narrates the novel; we're in his head. You're hearing all his thought processes and you're hearing him call himself out on his bad behavior. You don't have the benefit of that narrator in a movie. What you see a character do, very often, becomes that much more important because you don't have him editorializing it for you.

The thing about living alone is that it gives you a lot of time to think. You don't necessarily reach any conclusions, because wisdom is largely a function of intelligence and self-awareness, not time on your hands. But you do become very good at thinking yourself into endless loops of desperation in half the time it would take a normal person.

Fate already warned us to pack it in. We just didn’t hear it in time.

What it must feel like, I thought, to look at something, anything really, and know that it’s for the last time?