Composer” is a word which here means “a person who sits in a room, muttering and humming and figuring out what notes the orchestra is going to play.” This is called composing. But last night, the Composer was not muttering. He was not humming. He was not moving, or even breathing. This is called decomposing.

When do you learn that the world, like any diner worth its salt, is open twenty-four hours a day?

who would dare think that, forever? Some idiot girl who wouldn’t know how things played out.

Tell it to everyone you know, but pretend you're kidding.

For Beatrice, when we met, my life began. Soon afterwards, yours ended.

But it's far too late for us; ring, hair, letters, photographs - all traces of our love will be scattered then, like an anagram.

They were almond cookies, although they could have been made of spinach and shoes for all I cared. I ate eleven of them, right in a row. It is rude to take the last cookie.