Perhaps all anxiety might derive from a fixation on moments - an inability to accept life as ongoing.

The only thing I've consistently been interested in in the last twenty-five years is writing very short texts. That continues to interest me as a project, to contain some part of reality, which is chaotic by definition, in a contained space. I like small apartments. I like getting rid of stuff. I went through my files yesterday and spent hours shredding things. It was great.

The catalog of emotion that disappears when someone dies, and the degree to which we rely on a few people to record something of what life was to them, is almost too much to bear.

The more you talk about something, the less accurate it gets.

If I'm not writing a thing, depression might be looming.

The best thing about time passing is the privilege of running out of it, of watching the wave of mortality break over me and everyone I know.

Time punishes us by taking everything, but it also saves us - by taking everything