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.

I also fear that nothing really ends at the end. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

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

It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.

We expressed love for this dog by ... knowing without showing that we cared for him.

I'm gonna hunt my life down and grab it.