The Extraordinary's The Norm.

We Each Die Countless Little Deaths On Our Way To The Last. We Die Out Of Shame As Humiliation. We Perish From Despair. And, Of Course, We Die For Love.

Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

A Man Kills The Thing He Loves, And He Must Die A Little Himself.

Writing A Book Is Like Masturbation, And Making A Movie Is Like An Orgy.

I Dreamt A Limitless Book, A Book Unbound, Its Leaves Scattered In Fantastic Abundance On Every Line There Was A New Horizon Drawn, New Heavens Supposed; New States, New Souls.