... you looked around and saw everybody either married or busy and happy and thinking and being creative, and you felt scared, sick, lethargic, worst of all, not wanting to cope. You saw visions of yourself in a straightjacket, and a drain on the family, murdering your mother in actuality, killing the edifice of love and respect built up over the years in the hearts of other people.

The silence between us was so profound I thought part of it must be my fault.

I felt like a racehorse in a world without racetracks.

I have to live my life, and it is the only one I’ll ever have.

We must be moving, working, making dreams to run toward; the poverty of life without dreams is too horrible to imagine.

I am not cruel, only truthful.

How many different deaths I can die?