Getting over what you did to me is not why I get out of bed anymore.

I think the job of writing and literature is to encourage each one of us to believe that we're living in a story.

Later our dreams begin catching fire around the edges, they burn like paper, we wake with our hands full of ash.

The hands are churches that worship the world.

It is really hard to be lonely very long in a world of words. Even if you don't have friends somewhere, you still have language, and it will find you and wrap its little syllables around you and suddenly there will be a story to live in.

Let me peer out at the world through your lens. (Maybe I'll shudder, or gasp, or tilt my head in a question.) Let me see how your blue is my turquoise and my orange is your gold. Suddenly binary stars, we have startling gravity. Let's compare scintillation - let's share starlight.

Being good felt like a heavy coat, so I took it off.