“You think you want the blue skies, the open road, but really you want the tunnel, you want to know how the story ends.”

“But you want to see shapes; you want to see stories, so you pick them out of the sky.”

“I don't want you to hate me. You have every reason to, I know. But I don't want that to be the end of our story.”

“I know what you want. You want a story that won't surprise you. That will confirm what you already know. That won't make you see higher or further or differently. You want a flat story. An immobile story. You want dry, yeastless factuality.”

“I want, I want, I want... At this point I'm just a mass of seething wants, but what I want I'm not really sure of. (Like going to the fridge, and opening it, letting all the cold air out...and not knowing what it is you want to eat. You stand with the door open hoping that something will you inspire you.) I'm standing with the door open at the fridge of life, and I want.”

“But this time I'm not to blame; I want you to believe that. I simply slipped into those violets. No, I want to be really truthful. I am a little to blame. The sky, you know, was gold, and the ground all blue, and for a moment he looked like some one in a book.”