But hope got in, no matter how hard and fast I tried to stomp it out. Like these tiny fire ants we used to get in Portland. No matter how fast you liked them, there were always more, a steady stream of them, resistant, ever-multiplying. Maybe, the hope said. Maybe.

Running is a mental sport, more than anything else. You're only as good as your training, and your training is only as good as your thinking.

Most people don't want to be saved. Besides, if you keep bailing everybody out, they'll never learn to paddle on their own.

This is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot.

my wild, uncured, erratic, incomprehensible heart.

At a certain point your brain stops to rationalize things. At a certain point it gives up, shuts off, shuts down.

Is it possible to tell the truth in a society of lies? Or must you always, of necessity, become a liar?