One night when my longing for her was like a fire burning out of control in my heart and my head, I wrote her a letter that just seemed to go on and on. I poured out my whole heart in it, never looking back to see what I'd said because I was afraid cowardice would make me stop. I didn't stop, and when a voice in my head clamored that it would be madness to mail such a letter, that I would be giving her my naked heart to hold in her hand, I ignored it with a child's breathless disregard of the consequences.

I think telling stories is like pushing something. Pushing against uncreation itself, maybe.

A lot of authority figures want to be good. I sense that, and yet at the same time I sense that authority, after a while, always leads to some kind of oppression. When the minority report comes in, what you do is run the minority out of town with a flaming cross. It's just the way things are.

the look of the sky as the day's blue blood runs out of its cheek.

I can't see the future, but it's grim. The depletion of resources - we're living in this dine-and-dash economy.

I'm not making an enemy; I'm keepin' one.

I'm most afraid of losing my mind. You lose your identity, your sense of who you are, where you are.