“I poked at the white paper bag. There was nothing left inside. Just like me: a clean crisp outside and nothing at all on the inside.”

“Whatever made me the way I am left me hollow, empty inside, unable to feel. It doesn't seem like a big deal. I'm quite sure most people fake an awful lot of everyday human contact. I just fake it all. I fake it very well, and the feelings are never there.”

“No big deal. We all have blood in us, the trick is keeping it inside.”

“I'm not sure what I am. I just know there's something dark in me. I hide it. I certainly don't talk about it, but it's there always, this Dark Passenger. And when he's driving, I feel alive, half sick with the thrill of complete wrongness. I don't fight him, I don't want to. He's all I've got. Nothing else could love me, not even... especially not me. Or is that just a lie the Dark Passenger tells me? Because lately there are these moments when I feel connected to something else... someone. It's like the mask is slipping and things... people... who never mattered before are suddenly starting to matter. It scares the hell out of me.”

“Nothing else loves me, nor ever will. Not even - especially - me. I know what I am and that's not a thing to love.”

“Oh, the symphonic shriek of a thousand hiding voices, the cry of the need inside, the entity, the silent watcher, the cold quiet thing, the one that laughs, the moondancer. The me that was not me, the thing that mocked and laughed and calling with its hunger.”

“That's why I liked him, I think. Another guy pretending to be human, just like me.”