What is life but an ongoing war?

For an outpour of love there is always a first partaker.

You can't get mad at a real ending. Some of them are ugly. It's the fake happily ever afters that should piss you off.

We live like sheep in line waiting to be slaughtered in a slaughterhouse. We eat and laugh and fight as we see those in front of us fall to the knife.

Nostalgia has a way of blocking the reality of the past.

Don't look for meaning in life. It was meant to be lived not understood.

You don't get explanations in real life. You just get moments that are absolutely, utterly, inexplicably odd.

I looked for any footmarks of course, but naturally, with all this rain, there wasn't a sign. Of course, if this were a detective story, there'd have been a convenient shower exactly an hour before the crime and a beautiful set of marks which could only have come there between two and three in the morning, but this being real life in a London November, you might as well expect footprints in Niagara. I searched the roofs right along—and came to the jolly conclusion that any person in any blessed flat in the blessed row might have done it.

Somethings are simply better left the way they are.

You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.