What inspires me most to write is the act of traveling.

In the mess of moving from place to place, I skipped two grades in the space of one year.

Come on, is your heart a sponge or a fist?

My mother always says that fear and pain are immediate, and that, when they're gone we're left with the concept, but not the true memory.

The dead are celebrated. The dead are loved. They give something to the living. Once you put something into the ground, Doctor, you always know where to find it.

In the end, all you want is someone to long for you when it comes time to put you in the ground.

When your fight has purpose - to free you from something, to interfere on the behalf of an innocent - it has a hope of finality. When the fight is about unraveling - when it is about your name, the places to which your blood is anchored, the attachment of your name to some landmark or event - there is nothing but hate, and the long, slow progression of people who feed on it and are fed it, meticulously, by the ones who come before them. Then the fight is endless, and comes in waves and waves, but always retains its capacity to surprise those who hope against it.