My heart is broken,” she goes. “It’s turned to a piece of stone. I’m no good. That’s what’s as bad as anything, that I’m no good anymore.

I could hear my heart beating. I could hear everyone's heart. I could hear the human noise we sat there making, not one of us moving, not even when the room went dark.

Honey, no offense, but sometimes I think I could shoot you and watch you kick.

You're a beautiful drunk, daughter. But you're a drunk.

Don’t complain, don’t explain.

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.