I want to be sitting in front of my computer, where you can press a button to block out your junk mail. These two are my junk mail.

And life goes on, which seems kind of strange and cruel when you're watching someone die. But there's a joy and an abundance of everything, like information and laughter and summer weather and so many stories.

Logical Tom begs emotional stupid dickhead Tom not to ask the question. 'Are you alone?' he asks quietly. He hears her breathing so close to his ear. 'Yes.' 'Good,' he says, his voice croaky. 'I'll sleep like a baby.

If something happened to me, whose face will be on the front page of the paper begging for me? Is a person worth more because they have someone to grieve for them?

Strange? I don't think that word comes anywhere near it. My troops are on an overnight camp three hundred kilometres away from here. I had to sleep at the Santangelo penitentiary for pre-pubescent girls.

I'm not interested in those who do me wrong. There's not enough time in the day for them.

You said to me once that you weren’t what I dreamed of. You were right. You surpass everything I dreamed of. Even the rot in you that’s caused you to do shameful things. Some men let the rot and guilt fester into something ugly beyond words. Few men can turn it into worth and substance. If you’re gods’ blessed for no other reason, it’s for that.