“The early cars already are drawing deep breaths past my door. And last night's phrases sick with lack of basis are still writhing on my floor.”

“My silence was not a lack of passion, but an inability to even draw a breath.”

“Shall I still sigh for what I have not got, Or try with cheerfulness to bear my lot? Fill up my cup! I know not if the breath I now am drawing is my last, or not!”

“surfing, writing, composing, and programming deep into the night, like it's the early 1980s with the hue of poison-green CRT illuminating the room, Nike running shoes on the floor, hair metal poster on the door, and everything is infinite, made of fibre optics and floppy disks . . .”

“The future for me is already a thing of the past -You were my first love and you will be my last”

“I had learned already never to empty the well of my writing, but always to stop when there was still something there in the deep part of the well, and let it refill at night from the springs that fed it.”