I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.

It's not a big thing, but I guess it's true--big things are often just small things that are noticed.

An eleven-year-old girl is many things, but she is not stupid.

He watched them grow, until eventually, great forests of words had risen throughout Germany.... It was a nation of farmed thoughts.

I can promise you that the world is a factory. The sun stirs it, the humans rule it. And I remain. I carry them away.- spoken by death

Stealing it, in a sick kind of sense, was like earning it.