Gay sex is a veritable breeding ground for disease.
We write dust epitaphs for our vanquished enemies and watch them blow away in the desert wind.
Short fiction seems more targeted - hand grenades of ideas, if you will. When they work, they hit, they explode, and you never forget them. Long fiction feels more like atmosphere: it's a lot smokier and less defined.
The problem with surviving was that you ended up with the ghosts of everyone you’d ever left behind riding on your shoulders.
We are nature. Our every tinkering is nature, our every biological striving. We are what we are, and the world is ours. We are its gods. Your only difficulty is your unwillingness to unleash your potential fully upon it.
The surfeit of bad trends pushes me to set my stories in worlds which are often diminished versions of our own present.
Knowledge is simply a terrible ocean we must cross, and hope that wisdom lies on the other side.
I feel less often compelled to do the work than I was in the past.
Alas! There cometh the time when man will no longer give birth to any star. Alas! There cometh the time of the most despicable man, who can no longer despise himself.
Nana. . . how come being happy and making your dreams come true are two different things? Even now, I still don't know why.
Hold on to the reins of Love and don’t be afraid. Hold on to the real behind the false and don’t be afraid.