This is not a love story, but love is in it. That is, love is just outside it, looking for a way to break in.

Life gives you enough hard knocks so it's unlikely you'll stay that sure of yourself.

Love, they say, enslaves and passion is a demon and many have been lost for love. I know this is true, but I know too that without love we grope the tunnels of our lives and never see the sun. When I fell in love it was as though I looked into a mirror for the first time and saw myself. I lifted my hand in bewilderment and felt my cheeks, my neck. This was me. And when I had looked at myself and grown accustomed to who I was, I was not afraid to hate parts of me because I wanted to be worthy of the mirror bearer.

When she bleeds the smells I know change colour. There is iron in her soul on those days. She smells like a gun.

The trouble is that when most people are apathetic ordinary people ... have to go too far, have to ruin their lives and be made an object of scorn just to get the point across. Did they really think I'd rather be camping by a polluted river than sitting in my own flat with my things about me?

Our own front door can be a wonderful thing, or a sight we dread; rarely is it only a door.

Life was a pre-death experience.