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

Nights without beginning that had no end. Talking about a past as if it'd really happened. Telling themselves that this time next year, this time next year, things were going to be different.

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 think a little menace is fine to have in a story. For one thing, it's good for the circulation.

Write about what you know, and what do you know better than your own secrets?

Writers will be judged by what they write.

and did you get what you wanted from this life even so? i did.