“I want an infinitely blank book and the rest of time.”

As long as I am thinking, I am alive.

Shyness is when you turn your head away from something you want.

The bruises go away, and so does how you hate, and so does the feeling that everything you receive from life is something you have earned.

She wanted more, more slang, more figures of speech, the bee’s knees, the cats pajamas, horse of a different color, dog-tired, she wanted to talk like she was born here, like she never came from anywhere else

I’m sorry for my inability to let unimportant things go, for my inability to hold on to the important things.

I felt, that night, on that stage, under that skull, incredibly close to everything in the universe, but also extremely alone.

Every moment before this one depends on this one.

She said, “Do you have more things that you need, or more that you don’t need?” I said, “It depends on what it means to need.

In truth I was manufacturing a brick wall of shits.

It can be challenge enough to have to eat with myself.

Love me, because love doesn’t exist, and I have tried everything that does.

We could imagine all sorts of universes unlike this one, but this is the one that happened.

It’s the tragedy of loving, you can’t love anything more than something you miss.

Choosing leaf or flesh, factory farm or family farm, does not in itself change the world, but teaching ourselves, our children, our local communities, and our nation to choose conscience over ease can.

She was a genius of sadness, immersing herself in it, separating its numerous strands, appreciating its subtle nuances. She was a prism through which sadness could be divided into its infinite spectrum.

Sometimes people who seem good end up being not as good as you might have hoped, you know?

I try to block out everything that distracts me. Even a big play, I blank it out.

My eyes went blank, and I stared off, and the music started. It was raining, and the sun was shining at the same time.

If they had said that the sun or the moon had gone out of the heavens, it could not have struck me with the idea of a more awful and dreary blank in creation than the words: Byron is dead!

Ignorance is a blank sheet, on which we may write; but error is a scribbled one, on which we must first erase.

It’s so fine and yet so terrible to stand in front of a blank canvas.

The blank page gives us the right to dream.

A word is a bud attempting to become a twig. How can one not dream while writing? It is the pen which dreams. The blank page gives the right to dream.

I advance all of my canvas at one time.