No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don't.

It always comes down to just two choices. Get busy living, or get busy dying.

You say true, I say thankya.

We never know which lives we influence, or when, or why. Not until the future eats the present, anyway. We know when it's too late.

Outlines are the last resource of bad fiction writers who wish to God they were writing masters' theses.

Friends come in and out of our lives, like busboys in a restaurant.

At nineteen, it seems to me, one has a right to be arrogant; time has usually not begun its stealthy and rotten subtractions. It takes away your hair and your jump-shot, according to a popular country song, but in truth it takes away a lot more than that.