“My conscience is killing me, isn't it? And when you're immortal that can be a really long and ignominious death”

“You are my world, my everything You stupid girl, you're gonna be the death of me So let me go, just let me be You stupid girl, I love the way you're killing me (killing me) You stupid girl (killing me) You stupid girl”

“You can kill time in a number of ways but it always depends on the kind of time you're fighting: some time is unkillable, immortal”

“How easy is murder when one calls it by a different name? How much easier is it for the conscience to condone “reaping” than “killing”—and when one knows that death isn’t the end, does it stop the killing hand for fear of retribution, or does it simply make it easier to kill, because, if life continues, how can murder be murder at all?”

“My eyes pop out when I catch a glimpse of how much leg she's showing. She's wearing her shortest mini skirt, the one that drives me crazy. Her legs look about a mile long as she crosses them and bobs her foot in time with the cafe's background music.She's really trying to kill me, isn't she?”

“All I'm saying is that, unless you're immortal, nothing can really belong to you. The best you can hope for is to hold something for a while, but in the end you've got to give it back.”