It was the face of a human being who’d been constructed exclusively of wounds. Not time or history or ambition, nothing but wounds. The face of a person who could probably kill someone without feeling anything whatsoever.
Every one of a hundred thousand cities around the world had its own special sunset and it was worth going there, just once, if only to see the sun go down.
But what I did sense was an emptiness like a black hole inside of him, and there was no predicting what might emerge from a place like that.
You don’t know what cold is until you’ve experienced the cold you feel when the blood is draining out of your body.
And sometimes ignorance is even harder to deal with than deliberate evil.
Memories are’t like words; they’re soft and gooey. Covered with a sticky slime, like a penis after sex, or your vagina when you menstruate, and shaped like tadpoles or tiny watersnakes
I wonder why people you have to meet have to be such liars. They lie as if their lives depended on it.
…having nothing better to do, meandered off to a coffee shop and sat facing each other for a couple of hours, neither of them talking much but each coming to the general conclusion that the other was a person rather like himself…
What makes somebody nice or unpleasant to be around is the way they communicate. When people are fucked up, their communication is fucked up.
That’s when he hit her, when he saw how scared she was. He couldn’t bear it that she was frightened and asking for help. Asking for help is wrong. Because there isn’t any such thing as help in this world.