I was still owed an explanation, I thought, but so what? What good was it going to do me? It wouldn't have made me any happier. It was like scratching when you have chicken pox. You think it's going to help, but the itch moves over, and then moves over again. My itch suddenly felt miles away, and I couldn't have reached it with the longest arms in the world. Realizing that made me scared that I was going to be itchy forever, and I didn't want that.

Do you ever do that thing where you lie in bed and you can't sleep so you end up writing out recent conversation you've had? So they look like a play?' Well you should. It's fun. I keep them. Look through them, sometimes.

It's a mystery of human chemistry and I don't understand it, some people, as far as their senses are concerned, just feel like home.

You had to live in your own bubble. You couldn't force your way into someone else's, because then it wouldn't be a bubble any more.

I'm human. That's how humans spend their time, doing shitty things.

He'd told her it was just a scratch and got cross when she hadn't offered morphine.

I don't think you can call it stalking when it's just phone calls and letters and emails and knocking on the door.