I try to make a point of being seen. Sometimes when I'm out, I'll buy a juice even when I'm not thirsty. If the store is crowded I'll even go so far as dropping change all over the floor, nickels and dimes skidding in every direction. All I want is not to die on a day I went unseen.

I want to say somewhere: I've tried to be forgiving. And yet. There were times in my life, whole years, when anger got the better of me. Ugliness turned me inside out. There was a certain satisfaction in bitterness. I courted it. It was standing outside, and I invited it in.

Forests, which I think do contain a lot mystery and traditionally are the setting for lawlessness and magic and what is outside of the rational to some degree, are still something more finite. I guess the desert and its crushing sense of infinite space is part of its connection to the mystical - on top of making you dehydrated and therefore primed for visions.

In life we sit at the table and refuse to eat, and in death we are eternally hungry.

She was gone, and all that was left was the space where you'd grown around her, like a tree that grows around a fence.

I'm very interested in structure, how multiple stories are assembled in different ways; that is what memory does as well.

It is impossible to distrust one's writing without awakening a deeper distrust in oneself.