I don't believe in Heaven or anything. But I want to be the kind of person that qualifies for entry anyway.

A middle-aged woman who looked like someone's cleaning lady, a shrieking adolescent lunatic and a talkshow host with an orange face... It didn't add up. Suicide wasn't invented for people like this. It was invented for people like Virginia Woolf and Nick Drake. And Me. Suicide was supposed to be cool.

Hard is trying to rebuild yourself, piece by piece, with no instruction book, and no clue as to where all the important bits are supposed to go.

But I suspect that all writers come up with premises of some kind, fragments of narrative or scenarios, in the course of a working week.

my friends don't seem to be friends at all but people whose phone numbers I haven't lost.

The natural state of the football fan is bitter disappointment, no matter what the score.

Most people have a rope that ties them to someone, and that rope can be short or it can be long. (Be long. Belong. Get it?) You don't know how long, though. It's not your choice.