When One Wants To Write,

The Evolution From Happiness To Habit Is One Of Death's Best Weapons.

After The Age Of 50 We Begin To Die Little By Little In The Deaths Of Others.

As If You Could Pick In Love, As If It Were Not A Lightning Bolt That Splits Your Bones And Leaves You Staked Out In The Middle Of The Courtyard. (...) You Don't Pick Out The Rain That Soaks You To The Skin When You Come Out Of A Concert.

Salt And The Center Of The World Have To Be There, In That Spot On The Tablecloth.

Literature Is ... A Game, But It's A Game One Can Put One's Life Into.