There is no God, and conversation is a dying art.

Anyone can express himself or herself, but what writers and poets want to do in their work, more than simply express themselves, is communicate.

But he stays by the window, remembering that life. They had laughed. They had leaned on each other and laughed until the tears had come, while everything else—the cold and where he'd go in it—was outside, for a while anyway.

I’d like to go out in the front yard and shout something. “None of this is worth it!” That’s what I’d like people to hear.

My life is going to change. I feel it.

That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.

Woke up this morning with a terrific urge to lie in bed all day and read.