I happen to like the strange ones. People who look normal and leads normal lives - they're the ones you have to watch out for.

Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that's the essence of running, and a metaphor for life

When I am writing, I do not distinguish between the natural and supernatural. Everything seems real. That is my world, you could say.

Time flows in strange ways on Sundays, and sights become mysteriously distorted.

my heart would swell without warning, and tremble, and lurch with a stab of pain. I would try clamping my eyes shut and gritting my teeth, and waiting for it to pass. And it would pass -- but slowly, taking its own time, and leaving a dull ache behind.

She's always polite and kind, but her words lack the kind of curiosity and excitement you'd normally expect. Her true feelings- assuming such things exist- remain hidden away. Except for when a practical sort of decision has to be made, she never gives her personal opinion about anything. She seldom talks about herself, instead letting others talk, nodding warmly as she listens. But most people start to feel vaguely uneasy when talking with her, as if they suspect they're wasting her time, trampling on her private, graceful, dignified world. And that impression is, for the most part, correct.

It's just a feeling I have. What you see with your eyes is not necessarily real. My enemy is, among other things, the me inside me.