They would grow old. They would forget me.

I love people. Everybody. I love them, I think, as a stamp collector loves his collection. Every story, every incident, every bit of conversation is raw material for me.

I started adding up all the things I couldn't do.

I used to pray to recover you.

Ever since I was small I loved feeling somebody comb my hair. It made me go all sleepy & peaceful.

I tried to speak in a cool, calm way, but the zombie rose up in my throat and choked me off.

So many people are shut up tight inside themselves like boxes, yet they would open up, unfolding quite wonderfully, if only you were interested in them.