Life Is One Heck Of An Invention.

His Whole Body Was Completely Still, Except The Wings, Which Were Still Fluttering A Little, Like When Someone Dies. That's When He Finally Understood That Of All The Things The Angel Had Told Him, Nothing Was True. That He Wasn't Even An Angel, Just A Liar With Wings.

I Don't Like The Expression "writer's Block" Because I Think It Presupposes That You Have A Problem With Your Plumbing. I Really Think It's The Other Way Around.

Making Up Characters And Places And Plots, Unlike Fixing Your Plumbing Or Doing Dishes, Is Anything But Practical Or Rational. I Write What Needs To Be Written The Way That Seems Genuinely Right.

I Have Always Thought That Heaven Is A Place For People Who Had Had A Good Life, But That Is Not True. God Is Merciful And Way Too Good To Make It So. The Heaven Is Just A Place For People Who Could Not Be Really Happy While Living On Earth. I Was Once Told That People Who Commit Suicide Are Taken Back On Earth To Repeat Life From The Very Beginning Because If They Did Not Like It Once, It Did Not Mean They Would Not Like It The Next Time. But Those Who Did Not Fit In On Earth At All, Ended Up Here. Everyone Comes To Heaven In Their Own Way.

And She Loved A Man Who Was Made Out Of Nothing. A Few Hours Without Him And Right Away She’d Be Missing Him With Her Whole Body, Sitting In Her Office Surrounded By Polyethylene And Concrete And Thinking Of Him. And Every Time She’d Boil Water For Coffee In Her Ground-floor Office, She’d Let The Steam Cover Her Face, Imagining It Was Him Stroking Her Cheeks, Her Eyelids And She’d Wait For The Day To Be Over, So She Could Go To Her Apartment Building, Climb The Flight Of Stairs, Turn The Key In The Door, And Find Him Waiting For Her, Naked And Still Between The Sheets Of Her Empty Bed.