Something told him that something was coming to an end. Not the world, exactly. Just the summer. There would be other summers, but there would never be one like this. Ever again.

And he waited. It was only for a few seconds, but it felt like a small forever.

Everything here is so weak, little girl. Everything breaks so easily. They want such simple things.

Some people have great ideas maybe once or twice in their life, and then they discover electricity or fire or outer space or something. I mean, the kind of brilliant ideas that change the whole world. Some people never have them at all... I get them two or three times a week.

Work. Home. The pub. Meeting girls. Living in the city. Life. Is that all there is?

It is a fool's prerogative to utter truths that no one else will speak.

For me, I would rather read a good book, from a contented author. I don't really care what it takes to produce that.