..finally he was just another ant, working and working until he died without meaning.
We're all kind of weird and twisted and drowning.
A fortunate author can write maybe twelve novels in his lifetime.
She was truly a beautiful girl. I could feel a small polished stone sinking through the darkest waters of my heart. All those deep convoluted channels and passageways, and yet she managed to toss her pebble right down to the bottom of it all.
People leave strange little memories of themselves behind when they die.
I'm not human. I'm a piece of machinery. I don't need to feel a thing. Just forge on ahead.