The world makes liars of us all.

I'm always most interested in writing about things that I don't understand.

Poetry and prose are of equal importance to me as a reader, and there doesn't seem to be much difference in my own writing.

You want to fall, that's all. You think it can't go on like that. It's as if your life is a perch on the edge of a cliff and going forward seems impossible, not for a lack of will, but a lack of space. The possibility of another day stands in defiance of the laws of physics. And you can't go back. So you want to fall, let go, give up, but you can't. And every breath you take reminds you of that fact. So it goes.

I've been writing poems and stories since I was about 13.

I knew that at least a few of the stars I saw were probably gone already, collapsed into nothing. I felt like I was looking at a lie. But I didn't mind. The world makes liars of us all.

The details of the world in which we live are always secondary to the fact that we must live in them.