Who cares about great marks left behind? We have one life... just one. Our life. We have nothing else.

The spontaneity of slaps is sincerity, whereas the ceremonial of caresses is largely convention.

Thought itself needs words. It runs on them like a long wire. And if it loses the habit of words, little by little it becomes shapeless, somber.

A vague uneasiness: the police. It's like when you suddenly understand you have to undress in front of the doctor.

Who cares about great marks left behind? We have one life... just one. Our life. We have nothing else.

We play make believe, pretend to take ourselves and each other seriously--to love each other, hate each other--but then--it isn't true. It isn't true, we don't care at all!

This free will business is a bit terrifying anyway. It's almost pleasanter to obey, and make the most of it.