Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.

[...] Shimamoto had her own little world within her. A world that was for her alone, one I could not enter.

People lose fifty million skin cells every day. The cells get scraped off and turn into invisible dust, and disappear into the air. Maybe we are nothing but skin cells as far as the world is concerned.

The light of morning decomposes everything.

I'm not human. I'm a piece of machinery. I don't need to feel a thing. Just forge on ahead.

The best thing would be to break your neck, but you'd probably just break your leg and then you couldn't do a thing. You'd yell at the top of your lungs, but nobody;d hear you, and you couldn't expect anybody to find you, and you'd have centipedes and spiders crawling all over you, and the bones of the ones who died before are scattered all around you, and it's dark and soggy, and way overhead there's this tiny, tiny circle of light like a winter moon. You die there in this place, little by little, all by yourself.

My imagination is a kind of animal. So what I do is keep it alive.