CLARE: The library is cool and smells like carpet cleaner, although all I can see is marble.

My apartment is basically a couch, an armchair, and about four thousand books.

The space that I can call mine.. is so small that my ideas have become small. I am like a caterpillar in a cocoon of paper; all around me are sketches for sculptures, small drawings that seem like moths fluttering against the windows, beating their wings to escape from this tiny space.. Every day the ideas come more reluctantly, as though they know I will starve them and stunt their growth.

It's hard being left behind. (...) It's hard to be the one who stays.

we both smile and we are conspirators.

We laugh and laugh, and nothing can ever be sad, no one can be lost, or dead, or far away: right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.

It was silly, wasn't it? But the singing made it not silly.