Why Paris? Paris needs no reason. Paris is its own reason.

I try to shake it loose-but these ideas, they cling. It's like I'm shackled to them with an iron chain. They rattle along behind me, dragging against the ground, always reminding me of their presence.

There is no normal. I've never met a normal person. The concept is flawed. It implies that there is only one way people are supposed to be, and that can't possible be true. Human experience is far too varied.

It's always awkward when someone doesn't realize you're joking and devotes thought time to what you've said. Double that when the person is wearing tinfoil.

No one in history had ever done less and yet been so wrong.

Stuart must have sensed my despair from the way I began lightly banging my forehead on the table.

I am a mass of contradictions.