It’s one of the happy things about a world gone so wrong: your personal freakishness don’t stand out so much.

Dying is Easy , its Living that’s hard

Not all the magic of earth is benevolent.

The abundance of small things, it’ll bury you.

…and she’s thinking of rage, like an ember or a burning acid swallowing up her knotted viscera. Blindness like the kind that leads men to perpetrate horrors, animal drunkenness, the jungles of the mind.

…a noisy parade of memories that frustrate her because of the way they play themselves out. These memories-it feels like she’s back there in the moment, like she has the moment to do over and...

Words have the power to make things true if they’re said right.

Stories that pander to your every readerly desire and whim are like overly loyal dogs that live for the simple glow of your approval. I’m a cat person. I like a little aloofness in my...

You somehow make it outta here and track me down, you best come with a furious rage–because I got no use for your sympathy.

To stop. To cease, just for a moment. To turn your back on the world, to close your eyes – to see the nothing that is not rather than the nothing that is everywhere around...