“About a month ago I got a cactus. A week later, it died. I was really depressed because I was like, 'Damn! I am less nurturing than a desert.”

“I bought a cactus. A week later it died. And I got depressed, because I thought, Damn. I am less nurturing than a desert.”

“This week or last week, I don't really care about it anymore. I write myself this later, I tell myself you let me go.”

“I am afraid to show you who I really am, because if I show you who I really am, you might not like it--and that's all I got.”

“Well, there were, of course, people to call. A good fifty names in my telephone book, which I had acquired only a month ago. But there was no one I wanted to talk to, much less see. Maybe I was just depressed. In that case, long live depression! That hypothetical malady made it very easy for me to take the most important decision in my life.”

“Every day I like what and who I am less and less,” he whispered more quietly than before,“because I know you wish for a different life. And I cannot give it to you.”