grief is an illness I can't recover from.

The memory is like orbiting twin stars, one visible, one dark, the trajectory of what's evident forever affected by the gravity of what's concealed.

Sometimes I claim I write because I put in an application at Sears and they've never called back.

Age plays cruel tricks on the human face; all our repressed feelings become visible on the surface, where they harden like a mask.

Everything happens for a reason, but that doesn't mean there's a point.

Kinsey was never a lawyer. She's strictly blue collar.

There is no sound so terrible as a man's sorrow for his own death.