“There is but a gentle stillness inside every cerebral. Tiny waterfalls of blood vessels rushing, becoming lethal.”

“My book isn't meant to be read all at once, but rather all in good time”

“If poetry is outta style then I wish to bring it back”

“Outside, the sun shines. Inside, there’s only darkness. The blackness is hard to describe, as it’s more than symptoms. It’s a nothing that becomes everything there is. And what one sees is only a fraction of the trauma inflicted.”

“It is still this moment and that will be true of every moment that follows, assuming this moment ever ends, which, if I am lucky, it won't.”

“Bart glared at his old friend. I'm not sure I like the new you, he said ~Take me to the blood tavern..Take me to the vampirate ship..If you don't mind me saying so, buddy, since you died, you've gotten awful bossy.What's the rush anyhow? aren't you immortal now? from where I'm sitting, you've got all the time in the world”

“Inside a wool jacket the man had made a pocket for the treasure and from time to time he would jiggle the pocket, just to make sure that it was still there. And when on the train he rode to work he would jiggle it there also, but he would disguise his jiggling of the treasure on the train by devising a distraction. For example, the man would pretend to be profoundly interested in something outside the train, such as the little girl who seemed to be jumping high up on a trampoline, just high enough so that she could spy the man on the train, and in this way he really did become quite interested in what occurred outside the train, although he would still jiggle the treasure, if only out of habit. Also on the train he'd do a crossword puzzle and check his watch by rolling up his sleeve; when he did so he almost fell asleep. Antoine often felt his life to be more tedious with this treasure, because in order not to be overly noticed he had deemed it wise to fall into as much a routine as possible and do everything as casually as possible, and so, as a consequence, despite the fact that he hated his wife and daughter, he didn't leave them, he came home to them every night and he ate the creamed chicken that his wife would prepare for him, he would accept the large, fleshy hand that would push him around while he sat around in his house in an attempt to read or watch the weather, he took out the trash, he got up on time every morning and took a quick, cold shower, he shaved, he accepted the cold eggs and orange juice and coffee, he picked the newspaper off the patio and took it inside with him to read her the top headlines, and of course he went to the job.”