“In twenty-four years of proofreading, flocks of words flew into my head through the windows of my soul. Some of them stayed on and built nests in there. Why should I not speak like a poet, with a commonwealth of language at my disposal, constantly invigorated by new arrivals?”

“Twenty-four year olds were my new favourite thing. I needed to tell Oprah to put them on her list.”

“I was twenty-four, but even then I led the gloomy, disorganized, solitary existence of a recluse. I stayed away from people, avoided even speaking to them, and kept more and more to my hole.”

“I think it's great that they can come in and suck us dry. Remind me to leave my window unlatched tonight. Day. Night. Whatever. Cone steal my soul, you worthless bastards. I'm open like a twenty-four-hour blood diner donor." (Dev)”

“I muttered a swear word to myself. After I heard Angel cussing like a sailor when she stubbed her toe, my new resolution was to watch my language. All I needed was a six-year-old mutant with a potty mouth”

“the poet I saw once...but whose words have long beenin my mind, windows of invincible candles... ”