“I need a house, full of books, devoid of heartaches.”

Tell me you are not aching, tell me you’re pretending.

Respect your body, it’s a home to be thankful for.

Those pages became the ocean I left my traces on.

There always will be people to put you down, make sure there always is your desire to stay strong.

It’s good to give up on some things, sometimes it lets you free.

Let your love consume you.

There’s another part of me which resists you, which loves me.

Even the pages I ink crave your name.

Remind yourself that you ended a chapter to start a new one not to re-read the previous one.

People don’t last, their actions say the lasting words for them.

As far as possible, let’s meet beyond the stars.

Let me know you to the core, let me be sweet to the sour.

I wish I could go back in time, not to do it all over again but just to be there for myself.

Filled with sorrow yet empty.

It feels ironic when you wake up one day and try to unlove a person you dreamed of waking up with.

Happiness is found by filling your voids with a leap of faith.

You can learn investing by reading books.

It does not say in the Bible that all laws of nature are expressible linearly!

I haven’t read any of the autobiographies about me.

Books are meat and medicine and flame and flight and flower steel, stitch, cloud and clout, and drumbeats on the air.

I remember when I first started being in magazines, I had pretty thin skin. I was this nerd that read books and stayed home and didn’t go out.

I either write the book or sell the jewels. And I’m kinda sentimental about the jewels.

Those books of mine that are remunerative – I’m not talking about poetry here – take years to write, and I am never sure they’ll be successful. So writing is a risk in more senses than one.

I never thought my book would turn so many people against slavery.