Next week, or next month, or next year I will kill myself. But I might as well last out my month's rent, which has been paid up.

I am the only real truth I know.

A room is, after all, a place where you hide from the wolves. That's all any room is.

I hadn't bargained for this. I didn't think it would be like this - shabby clothes, worn-out shoes, circles under your eyes, your hair getting straight and lanky, the way people look at you. ... I didn't think it would be like this

The feeling of Sunday is the same everywhere, heavy, melancholy, standing still.

You imagine the carefully pruned, shaped thing that is presented to you is truth. That is just what it isn't. The truth is improbable, the truth is fantastic; it's in what you think is a distorting mirror that you see the truth.

I am empty of everything. I am empty of everything but the thin, frail ghosts in my room.