A reasonable being might think that he and I could find some common ground; have a cup of coffee and compare our Passengers, exchange trade talk and chitchat about dismemberment techniques. But no: Doakes wanted me dead. And I found it difficult to share his point of view.

Could this be the Apocalypse ?

Getting yelled at by a furious woman should be treated as a semiformal occasion.

I had killed our careful relationship by driving my tongue through its heart and pushing it off a cliff.

Killing makes me feel good.

It's always me, isn't it? I'm not really a very nice person, but for some reason it's always me that they come to with their problems.

What do you want a clock for?” “To find out what time it is,” I said. “I think that’s the usual purpose.