In bed that night I invented a special drain that would be underneath every pillow in New York, and would connect to the reservoir. Whenever people cried themselves to sleep, the tears would all go to the same place, and in the morning the weatherman could report if the water level of the Reservoir of Tears had gone up or down, and you could know if New York is in heavy boots.

I looked at everyone and wondered where they came from, and who they missed, and what they were sorry for.

I am not sad, he would repeat to himself over and over, I am not sad. As if he might one day convince himself. Or fool himself. Or convince others -- The only thing worse than being sad is for others to know that you are sad.

What were we spending so much time doing if not getting to know each other?

Part of living your life is an awareness of the opportunities that can be missed and an awareness that time moves in one direction.

It was not the feeling of completeness I so needed, but the feeling of not being empty.

People don’t care enough. They don’t get worked up enough. They don’t get angry enough. They don’t get passionate enough. I’d rather somebody hate what I do than be indifferent to it.