I keep everything inside; I am
a wine cellar of unsaid things.
This is why my love letters burn
like whiskey - every word is
fermented with all the fluff
evaporated off. I love in a way
that leaves people on the floor.
A writer—and, I believe, generally all persons—must think that whatever happens to him or her is a resource. All things have been given to us for a purpose, and an artist must feel this more intensely. All that happens to us, including our humiliations, our misfortunes, our embarrassments, all is given to us as raw material, as clay, so that we may shape our art.