“I wish I could sculpt my shadow into my night clone, and it could be out earning me money while I slept, instead of being folded up neatly in my underwear drawer like it is now.
”

“If artists often get famous posthumously, then there is only one thing for me to do—fake my own death. Or I could just wait for science to give me a clone, and kill him instead. He’ll get my credit, and I’ll get his money.”

“I wish I had money now. If only I’d saved my allowance growing up, instead of squandering it on balls, balloons, booze, and floozies.”

“I couldn’t steal an idea. Not even if my clone came up with it. But I could steal your heart—even if my clone had it stored in a cryogenic freezer.”

“Making money for my clones, now that’s what I call self-enrichment. Having all my clones working for me, working for free, and enriching me, now that’s what I call social progress. Ah, but that’s life, no?”

“It’s not you, it’s me.” This line could signify rejection, or it could be something I say in the future, when I’m talking to one of my clones about another one of my clones.”

“A shadow is midnight’s whisper, I thought as I shouted at my invisible clone. Killing your own clone is the only time you could commit murder and suicide at the same time by killing just one person.”