I contemplate the notion that maybe regrets are a process of accumulation of time, as unavoidable as a closet full of clothes and more bags of them in the attic. Is accumulated baggage what makes people get old? If so, they need to clean out their fecking attics, send the stuff to consignment shops and remember how to walk around naked like kids, little bellies sticking out, always ready for a good laugh.

It's so easy to lie. What’s even worse is how we cling to those lies. We beg for the illusion so we don’t have to face the truth, don’t have to feel alone.

I like sex for breakfast, kid. I eat early and often.

She's my baby girl, Quinn. I want love for her. Real love. The kind that makes a man crazy inside. -Gibraltar to Quinn

When do these three days expire?" "That's what pisses me off. I don't know. He was annoyingly vague." "The nerve. Threatening you and not being precise about it.

You can't save people from themselves. You can only try to wake them up.

Mac: "It's not the sidhe-seers." He stopped and went very still. JZB: "Who is it?" Mac: "The MacKeltars." He was silent a long moment. Then he began to laugh, softly. JZB: "Well played, Ms. Lane." Mac: "I had a good teacher." JZB: "The best. Hop on one foot, Ms. Lane." Mac and Barrons