It bothered me in a kind of Charles Manson way to have a brown smear of blood on my wall but I also liked it because every time I looked at it I was reminded that I was, at that very moment, not bleeding from my face. And those are powerful words of hope, really.

I had a thought, on the way home from the rock field, that the things we don't know about a person are the things that make them human, and it made me feel sad to think that, but sad in that reassuring way that some sadness has, a sadness that says welcome home in twelve different languages.

I learned another thing, which is that just because someone is eating the ashes of your protagonist doesn't mean you stop telling the story.

I love road trips. You get into this Zen rhythm; throw sense of time out the window.

It's raining questions around here. A person could drown in them.

There are no windows within the dark house of depression through which to see others, only mirrors.

If you have to end up in the hospital, try to focus all your pain in your heart rather than your head.