“If God is real, I think he might be some kind of masochist. I imagine he sits there up on his cloud, long white robes flowing, drinking a forty of Mickey’s and smoking a Winston as he flips me the bird and plans what he’ll do next to piss me off.”

“He is dressed in a long, white robe and in his hand is a white cap. I draw up as he passes down the hall; he does not see me. Shortly I hear a horse leaving. There is much I do not know about him, but tonight I know one of his secrets. He is a midnight rider.”

“He might have thought white people was coyotes, but he still shared food with me. Long as people do that, I guess it don't matter what they think of you.”

“Damon Scares me,' Maggie said. 'Maybe you should do what he wants.''Can't.''Why not?''Because he killed me. That kind of pisses me off”

“What does that mean, 'real'? Amn't I real, you? If you cut me, do I not bleed? If you piss me off, will I not kick you up the arse?”

“Will he come to me, Dream Angus, Come quietly through the evening light, Come when I do not expect him, and I am sleepy, Come when I am drowsy, when I am ready for rest; Will he come to me, Dream Angus?...Will I see the birds about his head, The birds that are his kisses? Will I believe that each of us, Even he who thinks himself unloved, May be transformed, made different By one who finds him marvellous? Will I think that? ...Will he bring me some sort of quietus, Some form of understanding; will he break my heart; Will he show me my love; will he give Me heart's contentment, the end of sorrow, Will he do that for me; will he do that?...”