I can remember as a college student writing stories and novels, some of which ended up getting published and some that didn't. It was like my head was going to burst - there were so many things I wanted to write all at once. I had so many ideas, jammed up. It was like they just needed permission to come out.

Some part of me knew from the first that what I wanted was not reality but myth.

If you can read in the 21st century you own the world.

Legends grow beards, and twenty-three years is plenty of time to grow a long one.

In the stutter-flashes of light, the clouds look like huge transparent brains filled with bad thoughts.

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.

Like all sweet dreams, it will be brief, but brevity makes sweetness, doesn't it?