I had never feared insomnia before--like prison, wouldn't it just give you more time to read?

Make a list of all the lovers you've ever had. Warren Lasher Ed "Rubberhead" Catapano Charles Deats or Keats Alfonse Tuck it in your pocket. Leave it lying around, conspicuously. Somehow you lose it. Make "mislaid" jokes to yourself. Make another list.

I want to pretend there's such a thing as requited love. As the endurance of love.

I wished for eternal and intriguing muteness. I would be the Mysterious Dumb Girl, the Enigmatic Elf. The human voice no longer interested me.

Nothing's a joke with me. It just all comes out like one.

Sometimes I ask myself if writing novels is even respectable.

Those are the love killers. They love you and then they kill you. They're from another planet. Supposedly.