Fear is a serviceable tool, I suppose. Like the stalls in a battery farm. If you want to keep people from their collective strength, make them too afraid of each other to ever meet or talk.

It wasn’t what I was expecting, but like I’ve always said: if life gives you lemmings, jump off a cliff.

Nothing matters more than the stories we tell ourselves to explain the world.

You move on. You move back. On because you’re always getting older, back because there’s always a set of habits and routines to catch you and suck you back in when your guard is down.

Even at its worst, there are tiny holes in the midnight canopy of my bad luck.

You’re a vampire, Richie. And I’ve got a gun the size of Nebraska. What’s the worst that could happen?

Grudging praise is the most flattering of all.

At least the smoke would give me a little cover; it was also choking me, making my eyes water and my lungs ache and spasm with each breath, but you can’t have everything.

Happy Families. What’s that all about, eh? A bloody busted flush is what it is. You surround yourself with other people so the night doesn’t seem quite so dark. Shout down the sound of the wind with arguments about whose turn it is to wash the dishes. Best not to kid yourself. Best not to give any hostages to fortune. You’re on your own in the end. Always. Where else would you want to be?

I’m not going to heal. Not if healing means shrugging your shoulders and saying ‘Life goes on’. Life doesn’t go on.