“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.”

“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.”

“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.”

“And once again I found myself wondering, as I drifted off to stunned and unbelieving sleep:How do these terrible things always happen to me?”

“It's always me, isn't it? I'm not really a very nice person, but for some reason it's always me that they come to with their problems.”

“I waved to everybody. Some of themeven waved back. They knew me, had seen me go by before, always cheerful, a big hello for everybody. He was such a nice man. Very friendly. I can’t believe he did those horrible things . . .”