I don’t trust the answers or the people who give me the answers. I believe in dirt and bone and flowers and fresh pasta and salsa cruda and red wine. I don’t believe in white...

Summertime is always the best of what might be.

I can’t even produce a metaphor for the drug world anymore. I don’t even like the phrase the drug world since the phrase implies a different world.

I try to construct a theory of how a moral person should live in these circumstances, and how such a person should love.