“If a cook can't make soup between two and seven, she can't make it in a week.”
“Writing is a lot like making soup. My subconscious cooks the idea, but I have to sit down at the computer to pour it out.”
“She's still doing it, pushing me into situations I can't handle, making me cope. She knows I can't cope.”
“It's hard when you miss someone so much, and you can't do anything about it. Because having that space between the two of you, is the only way to make things right.”
“Two weeks until your cure" she says finally. "Sixteen days" I say, but in my head I'm counting: Seven days. Seven days until I'm free and away from all these people and their sliding superficial lives brushing past one another gliding, gliding, gliding from life to death. For them there's hardly a change between the two.”
“If you can't be seven feet tall, be seven feet smart.”