It was like drowning, only from the inside out.

God turned out to be a bunch of bad little kids playing interstellar Xbox. Isn't that funny?

If you don't have time to read, you don't have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.

The redness was going out of the light now, the remains of the day were a fading pink, the color of wild roses.

I was built with a love of the night and the unquiet coffin.

Even the company of the mad was better than the company of the dead.

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