You can do all manner of underhanded nice things when you have a caustic reputation.

Why me?' I ask God. God says nothing. I laugh and the stars watch. It's good to be alive.

I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.

When I recollect her, I see a long list of colors, but it's the three in which I saw her in the flesh that resonate the most. Sometimes I manage to float far above those three moments. I hang suspended, until a septic truth bleeds toward clarity. That's when I see them formulate: THE COLORS RED: [rectangle] WHITE: [circle] BLACK: [swastika] They fall on top of each other. The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

The beauty of my work is that my sets cost nothing. That's what I love about being a writer of novels.

Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.