She really did like me, the idiot.

It's that moon again, slung so fat and low in the tropical night, calling out across a curdled sky and into the quivering ears of that dear old voice in the shadows, the Dark Passenger, nestled snug in the backseat of the Dodge K-car of Dexter's hypothetical soul. That rascal moon, that loudmouthed leering Lucifer, calling down across the empty sky to the dark hearts of the night monsters below, calling them away to their joyful playgrounds.

I enjoyed watching good-looking idiots looking at each other. A great spectator sport.

And so as much as I can, I care about her, dear Deborah. It's probably not love, but I would rather she were happy.

It really is better to be lucky than to be good.

As I've said, freedom is really an illusion. Anytime we think we have a real choice, it just means we haven't seen the shotgun aimed at our navel.

Life's only obligation, afterall, was to be interesting.