There is no answer. It's okay. But even if it wasn't okay, what am I supposed to do?

there isn't enough of anything as long as we live. But at intervals a sweetness appears and, given a chance prevails.

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

I guess my writing has changed as my life has.

All this, all of this love we're talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory. Am I wrong? Am I way off base? Because I want you to set me straight if you think I'm wrong. I want to know. I mean, I don't know anything, and I'm the first one to admit it.

Something’s died in me,” she goes. “It took a long time for it to do it, but it’s dead. You’ve killed something, just like you’d took an axe to it. Everything is dirt now.

There's literary creation and literary business. When I first got something accepted, it gave my life a validation it didn't otherwise have.