“I just can't find the time to write my mind the way I want it to read.”

“I remember my mother’sSister’s husband’s brotherWorking in the goldmine full-timeFilling in for sunshineFiling into tight linesOf ordinary beehivesThe door screams I hate youHate you hanging around my blue jeansWhy is there no breezeNo currency of leavesNo current through the water wireNo feelings I can seeI trust no emotionI believe in locomotionBut I've turned to rust as we've discussedThough I must have let you downtoo many timesIn the dirt and the dust”

“Write the book you've always wanted to read, but can't find on the shelf.”

“I like to read and write because it is the ONLY thing that takes my mind off of the real world and my spinning worries. It is a time I can be free of anxiety, worry, and stress. When my life gets hectic I HAVE to read and write or I'll drown.”

“And I can't read your mind either, just your face.”

“I was going for the devious smile that would suddenly light up his face each time he'd read my mind, when all I really wanted was skin, just skin.”

“I want to write my own eulogy, and I want to write it in Latin. It seems only fitting to read a dead language at my funeral.”