This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can’t touch anything and nothing can touch you.
When you don’t share your problems, you resent hearing the problems of other people.
Funerals are all abstract ceremony.
No matter how much you think you love somebody, you’ll step back when the pool of their blood edges up too close.
Give me rampant intellectualism as a coping mechanism.
Why is it you feel like a dope if you laugh alone, but that’s usually how you end up crying?
It’s funny how you never think about the women you’ve had. It’s always the ones who get away that you can’t forget.
A minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.
The most boring scenes are the scenes where a character is alone.
I’m always trying to reach a transcendent point, a romantic point, but reach it in a really unconventional way, a really profane way. To get to that romantic, touching, heartbreaking place, but through a lot of acts of profanity.
I like to get people moving and jumping. I think it’s good to add more emotion and chaos.
I really love idiot, enlightened characters – these characters who fail to engage with the drama of their immediate circumstances; they fail to be reactive and enrolled by drama as it happens around them.
More and more, it feels like I’m doing a really bad impersonation of myself.
Portland in particular is a cheap enough place to live that you can still develop your passion – painting, writing, music. People seem less status-conscious. Even wealthy people buy second-hand clothes and look a little bit homeless.
You can kill a lifetime without feeling anything but skin.
If your body is a temple, you can pile up too much deferred maintenance. If your body is a temple, mine was a real fixer-upper.
Without true chaos, we can never have true peace.
That quest for something pretty. A cheat. A cliche. Flowers and Christmas lights, it’s what we’re programmed to love.
On the other side of the handrail, the hallway’s gray marble floor looks as if we’ve climbed a stairway through the clouds.
Every generation wants to be the last.