I'm skimming across the surface of my own history, moving fast, riding the melt beneath the blades, doing loops and spins, and when I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it is as Tim trying to save Timmy's life with a story.

The bad stuff never stops happening: it lives in its own dimension, replaying itself over and over.

I'm not dead. But when I am, it's likeI don't know, I guess it's like being inside a book that nobody's reading.

Everyone acts stupid at some time in order to be loved.

He had an opinion of himself, I think, that was too high for his own good. Or maybe it was the reverse. Maybe it was a low opinion that he kept trying to erase.

I was a coward. I went to the war.

I survived, but it's not a happy ending.