He made a small sigh, as he swallowed the first blood, then his mouth closed over my earlobe, mouth working at the wound, tongue coaxing blood from the wound. He pressed his body the length of mine, one hand cupping my turned head, the other playing down the line of my body. Maybe it was just blood, but I never stroked my steak while eating it.

Maybe you’re not willing to give up a lover who’s colder than you are.

In real life I do violence, but for psychic stuff I do other things better.

And your excuse?' I asked. 'I'm a sociopath; I don't have to be nice,' Nicky said. I gave him a look. 'You're mad at him.I can feel it; which means I really don't have to be nice to him.' 'I thought you were friends.' 'What part of sociopath didn't you understand?' he asked.

[T]hese last few days where I've moped around damn near depressed for real, because of people who do not exist. Not really. I can buy them Christmas presents, but there is no way to send them. Sometimes I feel like I should be able to walk into the next room and there they will be, but they won't. These people do not exisit as flesh and blood, but there are different kinds of reality, and there are days when imagination feels very, very real.

People go away and they don't come back.

I hated missing the end of anything. I was always convinced that the bit I'd miss would be the best part.