It's all just fictions anyway. We do what we do and then we make up reasons for it afterward but they're never the true reasons, the truth is always just out of reach.

Like running the hurdles. Work so hard, jump over every one, fast, high enough but no higher, because you can't afford to hang in the air. And then, when the race is over, you're dripping with sweat, either they beat you or you beat them ... and then a couple of guys come out and move the hurdles out of the way. Turns out they were nothing. All that work to jump over them, but now they're gone.

Nobodys life ever goes according to plan. So why do we keep on planning? Because that's how we know who we are. By what we intend to be. By what we try to become. And fail. I don't say 'fail'. I saw we aim and miss. But we still hit something.

You’re not a human being until you value something more than the life of your body. And the greater the thing you live and die for the greater you are.

The univers is statistically more likely to be ironic than not.

Order and disorder', said the speaker, 'they each have their beauty.

Everybody walks past a thousand story ideas every day. The good writers are the ones who see five or six of them. Most people don't see any.