O.K. I'm running out of appetite. Let this swirl - a bit like Crab Nebula - do for now.

"What? You don't think I'm perfect?" I can't resist, because he gets so riled whenever I bring it up. "I can run up to thirty miles without stopping. I can jump six feet in the air. There is not a...

Life and death; there is no bridge between the two; they are stuck to each other! Death is only a step away from us, no more, only one step!

I don't need to write. Madness or suicide are other options, though not nearly as compelling. But I want to create; I hope to create worlds in my own image, admittedly a self-centered plan. I want...

Time slowed as metal shards enveloped her like shattered glass. None pierced her of course, but it seemed as though she might be able to reach out and pluck one from the sky. She settled for...

She thought about how in that moment life was perfect because it was simple. One truck, a world asleep, and a million stars. It didn't matter where they were going. She was just existing.

A wave of saudade swept over me as I realized home never existed at all. The concept of home felt far from my reach, and I felt sick with longing.

What if we changed the story that has been peddled to us over thousands of years by those religions that want to control us, that this life is merely a stepping stone to something better or something...

The Purpose of Philosophy is to fall in Love. To strip the world of all its clothes, and fall in Love with it as it stands before you completely naked.

Assuming I am mad {Ha!} god, how I must have suffered to go mad. And all the time I was calling to people to save me and no one put out his hand and held it. This is like suicide, only I am alive and...

"And then the sobbing. Again the soft but sharp crying, and sorrow making his body recoil. - They have killed your father. - And who killed you, mother?"

But the problem with crests is that they lead downhill. From the crest I can see all the rest of my years stretched out before me. And the view doesn't please me. I see only aging, diminishment,...

The past is a novel, written by Fate, weaving the same themes: love and its glory, hate and its prisoners, the soul and its price. Our decisions become narratives: fated choices that unknowably change...

We reach with our hands and brush away the clouds and pierce the sky to reach the moon and Mars but we still can't reach the truth

I'm not so sure innocence exists anymore.

It may be that there is no place for any of us. Except we know there is somewhere; and if we found it, but lived there only a moment, we could count ourselves blessed.