“The poet’s life is just so much crenellated waste, nights and days whipping swiftly or laboriously past the cinematic window. We’re hunched and weaving over the keys of our green our grey or pink blue manual typewriter maybe a darker stone cold thoritative selectric with its orgasmic expectant hum and us popping pills and laughing over what you or I just wrote, wondering if that line means insult or sex. Or both. Usually both.”

“I was just wondering if you were armed. You want anything? Dagger, maybe?" He opened his own suit jacket just a bit, and Simon saw something long an metallic glinting against the inside lining."No wonder you and Jace like each other so much. You're both crazy walking arsenals.”

“Do you think that we're products of our environments? I think so, or maybe products of our expectations. Others' expectations of us or our expectations. I mean others' expectations that you take on as your own. I realize how difficult it is to seperate the two. The expectations that others place on us help us form our expectations of ourselves.”

“Both our opinions are rooted in our experience," I said. "Both of them are true, it's just that we've had different experiences.”

“The thing that binds us together is that we have both lowered our expectations of life”

“Our sex is fierce. We will both be bruised. "I want it to always be like this," I tell him. "Try holding onto that thought." "I do not need to try. I will never feel differently." His laughter is as dark and cold as the place of which I dream, "One day you will wonder if it's possible to hate me more.”