I Am, After All, A Thriller Writer.

I Wish I Could Tell You That Through The Tragedy I Mined Some Undiscovered, Life-altering Absolute That I Could Pass On To You.i Didn't.the Cliches Apply-people Are What Count,life Is Precious,materialism Is Over Rated, And The Little Things Matter,live In The Moment-and I Can Repeat Them To You Ad Nauseam.you Might Listen, But You Won't Internalize.tragedy Hammers It Hm.tragedy Etches Into Your Soul.you Might Not Be Happier.but You Will Be Better.

You Want This So Badly—this Second Chance, This Chance At Real Redemption—that You Can’t See The Truth.

I Love Stories. When I'm Writing, What I Pretend Subconsciously Is That We're Cavemen, We're Sitting Around The Fire, And I'm Telling You Stories. If I Bore You, You're Probably Going To Pick Up A Big Club And Hit Me Over The Head.

...desperation Can Toy With You And If You Give Desperation Any Wiggle Room, It Will Find Alternative Answers

I Used To Wonder Why Lucy Liked Those Songs So Much. You Know What I Mean? She Sits In The Dark And Listens And Cries. Music Does That To Her...i Didn't Understand For A Long Time. But I Do Now. The Sad Songs Are A Safe Hurt. It's A Diversion. It's Controlled. And Maybe It Helps You Imagine That Real Pain Will Be Like That. But It's Not. Lucy Knows That, Of Course. You Can't Prepare For Real Pain. You Just Have To Let It Rip You Apart.