He knew why there are things, endless things, and not nothing.

And as though they had all forever been waiting for this, all leaning forward eagerly or impatiently and fixing on him, waiting to see if he would finally get it, those things now sank back, and let go, and letting go they went comfortably to sleep. It was all right.

The world doesn't make sense

unless you force it to.

We are always playing

with the truth.

We will come to the conclusion

that we are doing exactly what we want to do.

Me, I'm a soul-catcher for God.

Here I come with my butterfly net of words. Here I catch the chrysalis. Here I blow life into bodies, and hurl them fluttering to the stars and the care of God.

A cure for self-absorption is saturation:

telling the story over as though it were another's until like a much-repeated word it loses sense.

Bullying

as a form of art.

The price of making something

is having to talk about it.