— They's lots of folks here that hate me. Lots! I can feel it. It's like bees stinging me.
— Well, feel how we feel, then. We don't hate you. Can you feel that?
— I fucked up.
— No, you're just in love man. Love is always a bitch.
Pain demands to be felt.
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I just don't believe in the whole thing any more. If I'm gonna be alone, I wanna be by myself.
Single-serving sugar and cream. Single pat of butter. The microwave cordon bleu hobby Kit. Shampoo-conditioner combos. Sample-package mouthwash. Tiny bars of soap. The people I meet on each flight... They're single-serving friends. Between takeoff and landing, we have our time together. That's all we get.
Man is capable of as much atrocity as he has imagination.
The blues are because you're getting fat or maybe it's been raining too long. You're just sad, that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. <...> Well, when I get it, the only thing that does any good is to jump into a cab and go to Tiffany's. Calms me down right away. The quietness and the proud look of it. Nothing very bad could happen to you there. If I could find a real-life place that made me feel like Tiffany's, then... Then I'd buy some furniture and give the cat a name.