If you're gonna do something weird, just have one thing be weird.

When you're a kid, it's hard to tell the innocuous secrets from the ones that will kill you if you keep them.

I have friends who are capable of writing a very rough draft and then going back and embroidering - they're sort of the cathedral builders of fiction. I never really know what I'm doing, and all my pleasure's on the level of the line. It's a weird way to move forward. It's kind of like a way to caterpillar your way through these great woods. The best ones, whatever I feel like I'm writing about, some other secret thing will begin to come into focus.

Somehow I wasn't adding up right anymore. My parts weren't summing into myself.

Regret is a pilgrimage back to the place where I was free to choose.

Hopes were wallflowers. Hopes hugged the perimeter of a dance floor in your brain, tugging at their party lace, all perfume and hems and doomed expectation. They fanned their dance cards, these guests that pressed against the walls of your heart.

If you're short on time, that would be the two-word version of our story: we fell.