I fancied myself a photographer as a teenager, but I had ulterior motives.

You want to write about how absent a man can be in the presence of an environment. You’re the man, and you’re very absent in your environment ...

“Who is to say the writer’s intention is necessarily any more important than the meaning we find or create?”

“Hopeless romantic”—at least in this context—is an oxymoron born of outsider cynicism—hope is inherent in love.

It should cost a billion to look this good—to look this much like yourself, ever changing.

What does it mean that the same hospital wing scopes out both the start of life and its potential end?