Home is where the heart is, until we get a chance to bury it. Home is where the heart pulled the nails out of its feet, and fled.
Well, it’s possible to be mentally ill and rational.
Listening to music that I hate calms me down.
Depression is like slashing at ghosts. Of course it’s tempting to finally cut something real.
Satellite images, maps and blueprints of the whole world, of every city. We could look it up and know what’s there in someone else’s words. Or we could get wicked drunk and just go.
I have a form of ESP that allows me to consistently pick losing lottery numbers, and generally make poor life choices.
The family that prays together, still probably dies in the fire.
I never wanted anything to happen to my parents, but a hero needs an origin story.
There are plenty of fish in the sea, if I run out of women.
I’ve always known I’d be a bank robber. So judge all you want, ladies and gentlemen. Because you never did become an astronaut.
There’s something not quite Christian about it,” Tony said. He sat back in his chair and looked up to where his Bible sat on the shelf. “I can’t put my finger on why exactly, but it doesn’t seem right for a couple of young ladies to be out there in the middle of the night, obsessing over their telescopes.
And if words mean something to you, if an idea moves you, aren’t you changed, just a little?
Goodbye forever” is the perfect joke, because forever is impossible. Every night I say it, and every morning I see my father again. Forever is meaningless. Tough talk, an empty threat. Forever is our secret handshake. Our code word. Our decoder ring. Not a measurement of time at all. I know this because “Goodbye Forever” comes easily. The passage of actual time is much more difficult.
Art, he said, isn’t your little paintings and comic books. Art is the meteor that wiped out the dinosaurs.
I hate trying to put my desire into words when my body knows exactly what to say. Come home.
I love you the way a knife loves a heart, the way a bomb loves a crowd; the way your mother warned you about, essentially.
I have loved since you. But when the new paint gets scratched, there you are underneath.
The more things change, the more you still don’t love me.
Looking back on that day, I can’t help but wonder: what if I had brought more bread for the ducks? Did I bring this on myself?
I have no use for before and after pictures. I can’t remember starting, and I am never done.