The multiple choices of possibilities of daily life are the music we dance to.

I love music, and I can play a little. But anyone can see the difference between someone who's talented and someone that's not.

All you imagined, no matter how wild it might seem, was no more than a disguised version of what you already knew.

We each owe a death, there are no exceptions, I know that, but sometimes, oh God, the Green Mile is so long.

I think the best stories always end up being about the people rather than the event, which is to say character-driven.

The situation comes first...the characters...come next...[then] begin to narrate.

Thin clouds form, and the shadows lengthen out. They have no breadth, as summer shadows have; there are no leaves on the trees or fat clouds in the sky to make them thick. They are gaunt, mean shadows that bite the ground like teeth. As the sun nears the horizon, its benevolent yellow begins to deepen, to become infected, until it glares an angry inflamed orange. It throws a variegated glow over the horizon.