I play the radio and moon about...and dream of Utopias where its always July the 24th 1935, in the middle of summer forever.

And only weaklings...who lack courage and the power to feel they're right when the whole world says they're wrong, ever lose.

Nothing annoys me more than having the most trivial action analyzed and explained.

memories should be sharp when one has nothing else to live for

There seemed to be some heavenly support beneath his shoulder blades that lifted his feet from the ground in ecstatic suspension, as if he secretly enjoyed the ability to fly but was walking as a compromise to convention.

She quietly expected great things to happen to her, and no doubt that’s one of the reasons why they did.

I wish I could write a beautiful book to break those hearts that are soon to cease to exist: a book of faith and small neat worlds and of people who live by the philosophies of popular songs.