I am in limbo, and in limbo there are no races, no prizes, no changes, no chances. There are merely degrees of endurance, and endurance never was my strong point.
I am not dead yet! I can still call forth a piece of soul and set it down in color, fixed forever.
The smarter you are, the more you know, the less reason you have to trust or love or confide.
I have faced Death. I have been caught in the wild weed tangles of Her hair, seen the gleam of her jade eyes. I will go when it is time - no choice! - but now I want life.
The company you keep at death is, of all things, most dependent on chance.
Through poverty, godhunger, the family debacle, I kept a sense of worth. I could limn and paint like no-one else in this human-wounded land: I was worth the while of living. Now my skill is dead. I should be.
I am exceedingly angry for no good reason.
It's the possibility that when you're dead you might still go on hurting that bothers me.
There is a time, when passing through a light, that you walk in your own shadow.
A family can be the bane of one's existence. A family can also be most of the meaning of one's existence. I don't know whether my family is bane or meaning, but they have surely gone away and left a large hole in my heart.