“She is deranged, but so so playful.”

“What? she said once to herself, and then once aloud, What? She felt a total displacement, like a spinning globe brought to a sudden halt by the light touch of a finger. How did she end up here, like this? How could there have been so much - so many moments, so many people and things, so many razors and pillows, timepieces and subtle coffins - without her being aware? How did her life live itself without her?”

“Did she always have something to read in front of her so she wouldn't have to look at anything else?”

“She had fallen in love so many times that she began to suspect she was not falling in love at all, but doing something much more ordinary.”

“She had been in love so many times that she began to suspect she was not falling in love, but rather doing something much more ordinary”

“How did she end up here, like this? How could there have been so much - so many moments, so many people and things, so many razors and pillows, timepieces and subtle coffins - without her being aware? How did her life live itself without her?”

“She was with me. She did all of those things and so many more, things I would never tell anyone, and she never even loved me. Now that’s love.”