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

I am suddenly comsumed by nostalgia for the little girl who was me, who loved the fields and believed in God, who spent winter days home sick from school reading Nancy Drew and sucking menthol cough drops, who could keep a secret.

that's what I love you for: your inability to perceive all my hideous flaws

You can still be cool when you’re dead. In fact, it’s much easier, because you aren’t getting old and fat and losing your hair.

I won't ever leave you, even though you're always leaving me.

When somebody is that patient, you have to feel grateful, and then you want to hurt them. Does that make any sense?

Clare, I want to tell you, again, I love you. Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this strange life of mine that I could ever trust. Tonight I feel that my love for you has more density in this world than I do, myself: as though it could linger on after me and surround you, keep you, hold you.