“When asked why I write, I say it is why I breathe. How I make my heart beat with life. It must be done so I can exist.” The Man With the Green Suitcase”

“I don't know how i stay on my feet, why i don;t just shatter into dust right there, why my heart keeps beating when i want it so badly to stop”

“Then tell me Mark, how can I do it? How do I watch her life fade everyday but not hurt? How do I continue to breath, when I know she takes one less breath everyday? Why Mark, Why is this happening to someone so precious?”

“How can so much beauty hide such a bruised and steely heart, and why must I love him, why must I lean in my weariness upon his irresistible yet indomitable strength? Is he not the wizend funeral spirit of a dead man in a child's clothes?”

“In my life I haven’t done anything worth writing about, but that’s OK. That’s why I write fiction.”

“How can they ask why I feel so angry? Do you see my problem if I never explain it?But then there's you asking me how long. Say something, it's taken me so long.”