“The next day, she was silent. For breakfast, she murdered an onion and served it raw.”

“She asked for soup, and I served her cereal. Our love was in the breakfast stage.”

“Pie in a bed of raw onions. Human skull looking put-upon. -- Howl”

“I once had a dream about a woman, and the next day she died. I stopped sleeping for three days after that to try to save some lives, but then my body relented and I went back to being a murderer.”

“Mostly though, they waited. For the mail. For the news. For the bells. For breakfast and lunch and dinner. For one day to be over and the next day to begin.”

“She had had insomnia badly when she was fresh from Home.... She had had only occasional bad nights since then. Bad? she thought. Why bad? I rarely feel much the worse the next day, except for a sort of moral irritability that seems to go with the feeling that I ought to have spent all those silent hours asleep.”