Irish was a man of parts even if some of them didn't work too well.

I had the brief notion that his heart, pressed flat as a flower, crimson and thin as tissue paper, lay in this file. It was a very thin one.

Just because we're sisters under the skin doesn't mean we've got much in common.

Love is desire sustained by unfulfilment.

Nostalgia, the vice of the aged. We watch so many old movies our memories come in monochrome.

For hours, for days, for years, she had wandered endlessly within herself but never met anybody, nobody.

With that, the poignant charm vanished. Inside the fifth machine, all was rampant malignity. Deformed flowers thrust monstrous horned tusks and trumpets ending in blaring teeth through the crimson walls, rending them; the ravenous garden slavered over its prey and every brick was shown in the act of falling. Amid the violence of this transformation, the oblivion of the embrace went on. The awakened girl, in all her youthful loveliness, still clasped in the arms of a lover from whom all the flesh had fallen. He was a grinning skeleton.