“Time goes faster the more hollow it is. Lives with no meaning go straight past you, like trains that don’t stop at your station.”

“Like a long train which stops at every dingy little station, the winter dragged slowly past.”

“A bus station is where a bus stops. A train station is where a train stops. On my desk, I have a work station….”

“The further on we go, the more meaning there is, but the less articulable. You live your life and the older you get- the more specifically you harvest- the more precious becomes every ounce and spasm. Your life and times don’t drain of meaning because they become more contradictory, ornamented by paradox, inexplicable. The less explicable, the more meaning. The less like a mathematics equation (a sum game); the more like music (significant secret).”

“The train goes slowly. From time to time it stops, so that the dead can be taken off. It stops a lot.”

“Please don’t think of me that way. Let me be the guy at the train station.”“You’re not the guy at the train station. You’re my Blake.”