Memory was such a worthless thing, really. Nothing it dealt with was attainable. It was concerned with phantom acts and feelings, with all that was uncapturable except in thought. It was without satisfaction.

Normalcy was a majority concept, the standard of many and not the standard of just one man.

A surfeiting of terror soon made terror a cliché.

After a while, though, even the deepest sorrow faltered, even the most penetrating despair lost its scalpel edge.

Thank you...for gracing my life with your lovely presence, for adding the sweet measure of your soul to my existence.

I can get pissed off very easily.

Quiet is here and all in me. ("Dress of White Silk")