I see that there will be no end to imperfection, or to doing things the wrong way. Even if you grow up, no matter how hard you scrub, whatever you do, there will always be some other stain or spot on your face or stupid act, somebody frowning.

The desire to be loved is the last illusion. Give it up and you will be free.

The true story is vicious and multiple and untrue after all. Why do you need it? Don’t ever ask for the true story.

Moira was like an elevator with open sides. She made us dizzy.

The bell that measures time is ringing

I am certain that a Sewing Machine would relieve as much human suffering as a hundred Lunatic Asylums, and possibly a good deal more.

I would like to believe this is a story I’m telling. I need to believe it. I must believe it. Those who can believe that such stories are only stories have a better chance. If it’s a story I’m telling, then I have control over the ending. Then there will be an ending, to the story, and real life will come after it. I can pick up where I left off.