Let's see if I can write about something other than my heart.
The world is harsh and inconsiderate, and you can rely only on your family.
As every so-called creative spirit soon learns, the rest of the world doesn't particularly give a damn.
Reading is entering into the consciousness of another human being.
How can we read when people need our help? It's a luxury. A stupid luxury.
In contravention of my belief that any life ending in death is essentially pointless, I needed my friends to open up that plastic bag and take one last look at me. Someone had to remember me, if only for a few more minutes in the vast silent waiting room of time.
After all, this is America, and you can swap out the parts of yourself that don't work. You can rebuild yourself piece by piece.
We're people of the Orient. We know everything. And what we don't know, we can sense.
I wonder what children whose parents have money think about in their spare time.