“I don’t care too much about talking, but I don’t like being alone.”

“I like you, but not too much. I don’t want to like anybody too much.”

“She is holding on tight to this talk of flowers, as I did before, when I was afraid and alone. If you sing and speak of blooms and petals that come back after a long time of being winter-still, you don’t have to think about things that don’t.”

“We used to talk about death, she said. We don’t anymore. Why is that?I don’t know.It’s because it’s here. There’s nothing left to talk about.I wouldn’t leave you.I don’t care. It’s meaningless. You can think of me as a faithless slut if you like. I’ve taken a new lover. He can give me what you cannot.Death is not a lover.O yes he is.Please don’t do this.I’m sorry.I can’t do it alone.”

“I know you don’t like to believe you ever need to be taken care of, but I can’t stand the idea of you being sick and alone. I need to be here for you, babe.”

“Well, draw yourself a pretty little blueprint and do me a favor and don’t show it to me. I like fighting, and I like fucking. I don’t care much for thinking.”