It's so quiet this high up, the feeling you get is that you're one of those space monkeys. You do the little job you're trained to do. Pull a lever. Push a button. You don't understand any of it, and then you just die.

I feel my heart ache, but I've forgotten what that feeling means.

We have pain and hate and love and joy and war in the world because we want them.

Burn the Louvre, and wipe your ass with the Mona Lisa. This way at least, God would know our names.

This is the worst problem with living history museums. They always leave the best parts out. Like typhus. And opium. And scarlet letters. Shunning. Witch-burning.

Jump way back to one time, Evie and me did this fashion shoot in a junk yard, in a slaughterhouse, in a mortuary. We'd go anywhere to look good by comparison, and what I realize is mostly what I hate about Evie is the fact that she's so vain and stupid and needy. But what I hate most is how she's just like me. What I really hate is me so I hate pretty much everybody.

After you find out all the things that can go wrong, your life becomes less about living and more about waiting.