Who but the mad would choose to keep on living? In the end, aren't we all just a little crazy?

I don't think you should die until you're ready. Until you've wrung out every last bit of living you can.

As a kid, I imagined lots of different scenarios for my life. I would be an astronaut. Maybe a cartoonist. A famous explorer or rock star. Never once did I see myself standing under the window of a house belonging to some druggie named Carbine, waiting for his yard gnome to steal his stash so I could get a cab back to a cheap motel where my friend, a neurotic, death-obsessed dwarf, was waiting for me so we could get on the road to an undefined place and a mysterious Dr. X, who would cure me of mad cow disease and stop a band of dark energy from destroying the universe.

I've never been in love. I will die without knowing what it feels like to need to see one person's face when you go to sleep at night, to crave seeing it when you wake up. I wish I knew.

I run after her, not really giving chase. I’m running because I can, because I must.
Because I want to see how far I can go before I have to stop.

But we can't go back. We can only go forward.