There's always something to occupy the inquiring mind.

Lose your temper and you lose the fight.

At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.

There's blood, a taste I remember. It tastes of orange popsicles, penny gumballs, red licorice, gnawed hair, dirty ice.

There's something to be said for hunger: at least it lets you know you're still alive.

You can think clearly only with your clothes on.

If you're waiting for the perfect moment, you'll never write a thing because it will never arrive. I have no routine. I have no foolproof anything. There's nothing foolproof.