I think I could be a perfectly decent cat. I've been around cats long enough to know what the rules of being a cat are. When all else fails, wash. And I think I could master the thing that cats do, where they stalk away pretending they meant to do whatever it was in the first place; showing their wounded dignity.

Every now and then I'll do little things, a short story or something, that doesn't have any fantastical elements, but mostly I like the power of playing God and I like to imagine things.

So the day became one of waiting, which was, he knew, a sin: moments were to be experienced; waiting was a sin against both the time that was still to come and the moments one was currently disregarding.

Anywhere that I can't check my email is a good place to write!

Honestly, if you're given the choice between Armageddon or tea, you don't say "what kind of tea?"

It's not sipping wine. It's a mourning wine. You drain it. Like this.

I fell for her like a suicide from a bridge.