I'm a huge fan of ghost stories, that sort of slow build, the suspense and the questioning about whether you're imagining something or if it's real.
I would have done anything to feel real again.
It’s a very difficult era in which to be a person, just a real, actual person, instead of a collection of personality traits selected from an endless Automat of characters.
I can't think of anything more crushing than slowly, over time, realizing exactly how wrong you were about someone.
I have a meanness inside me, real as an organ. Slit me at my belly and it might slide out, meaty and dark, drop on the floor so you could stomp on it.
Love makes you want to be a better man. But maybe love, real love, also gives you permission to just be the man you are.