I write about broken people who need other people in order to go on. But those are the only kind of people I know to exist. We are all broken.

Some tourists think Amsterdam is a city of sin, but in truth it is a city of freedom. And in freedom, most people find sin.

Amsterdam is like the rings of a tree: It gets older as you get closer to the center.

I feel like crying, so I must be crying, but it's impossible to tell because I'm underwater.

...And in freedom, most people find sin.

So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was a hurricane.

A taste so profound and complex that it can't even be compared to other tastes, only to emotions. Cheesy waffles, I was thinking, tastes like love without the fear of love's dissolution.

My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.

The only way out of the labyrinth of suffering is to forgive.

All those paper people living in their paper houses, burning the future to stay warm.

I would always love Alaska Young, my crooked neighbor, with all my crooked heart.

Madness has no sense of humour

Why pray and live in doubts and fears afterwards? Don't you trust God anymore?

Gravity hurts.

Beauty set up distance between other people and me. It warped their behavior.

Beauties in vain their pretty eyes may roll; charms strike the sight, but merit wins the soul.

The only reason Woodstock was necessary is because they didn't have iTunes.

Wherefore the heart and the diaphragm are particularly sensitive, they have nothing to do, however, with the operations of the understanding, but of all these the brain is the cause.

What do you mean, I'm a wild front man! I'm jumping all over, I do the dance moves.

The wounds invisible that Love's keen arrows make.

There are other ways of finding satisfaction, recipes for human happiness, enjoyment, dignified and meaningful, gratifying life, than increased consumption that increases production.