“i am makeshift confettiin a pile beneath the paper shredderif you throw me out the windowit will be festive for a momentthen everyone will think about brooms.”

“Why, if I were to believe what everyone says about me, I would think myself quite, quite ugly. But I don't believe everyone, you see...I believe you because you are my friend. You think I'm beautiful, and so I am.—The Old One”

“Is everyone as wrong about me as I am about them?”

“Because You have called me here not to wear a label by which I can recognize myself and place myself in some kind of a category. You do not want me to be thinking about what I am, but about what You are. Or rather, You do not even want me to be thinking about anything much: for You would raise me above the level of thought. And if I am always trying to figure out what I am and where I am and why I am, how will that work be done?”

“I just want some time, Mikhail, to think things through. It’s frightening, the way I am about you. I think about you every minute; I want to touch you, just to know I can, to feel you beneath my fingers. It’s as if you crawled into my head and my heart, even my body, and I can’t get you out.”

“I am thinking about you, I say to her. Can you hear me?”