Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy.

And now -- now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me? Don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

Do you know that hope sometimes consists only of a question without an answer?

Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting

I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.

Her curiosity instructed her more than the answers she was given.

Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?