What are you doing?" Nothing. Breaking and entering. Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain.

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

It’s dark now and I am very tired. I love you, always. Time is nothing.

Do you ever miss him? Every day. Every minute. Every minute, she says. Yes, it's that way, isn't it?

Henry loves my hair almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own, as though it could love him back.

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.

Chaos is more freedom; in fact, total freedom. But no meaning.