It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.

July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.

The day was gray, the color of Europe.

All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.

The bittersweetness of uncertainty: To win or to lose.

I wanted to drown inside a woman in the feeling and drooling of the love I could give her. I wanted her pulse to crush me with its intensity. That's what I wanted. That's what I wanted myself to be.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.