What I'm saying is that I'm trying to find rational reasons to explain irrational feelings, and that's neveer a good sign.

It wasn't just love that held people together. There was secrets, and the price you paid to keep them.

Everything's a lot tougher when it's for real. That's when you choke. When it's for real.

The bad ideas kind of just drop out of the mix. You forget about them. The good ones stick around.

Alone. Yes, that's the key word, the most awful word in the English tongue. Murder doesn't hold a candle to it and hell is only a poor synonym.

I think that we're all mentally ill. Those of us outside the asylums only hide it a little better - and maybe not all that much better after all.

When it comes to the past, everyone writes fiction.