Rain in the graveyard, and the world puddled into blurred reflections.

Partly because I get such astonishingly nice fans.

I will write in words of fire. I will write them on your skin. I will write about desire. Write beginnings, write of sin. You’re the book I love the best, your skin only holds my truth, you will be a palimpsest lines of age rewriting youth. You will not burn upon the pyre. Or be buried on the shelf. You’re my letter to desire: And you’ll never read yourself. I will trace each word and comma As the final dusk descends, You’re my tale of dreams and drama, Let us find out how it ends.

If you want to imagine the future, imagine a boy and his dog and his friends. And a summer that never ends.

I was not happy as a child, although from time to time I was content. I lived in books more than I lived anywhere else.

It's easier to lie to yourself when you say things out loud.

Does it make you feel big to make a little boy cry?