It's always seemed so ridiculous to me, that you would want to be with someone just because they're pretty. Like choosing breakfast cereal based on color instead of taste.

What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person.

Nothing ever happens like you imagine it will... But then again, if you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all.

Here's what's not beautiful about it: from here, you can't see the rust or the cracked paint or whatever, but you can tell what the place really is. You can see how fake it all is. It's not even hard enough to be made out of plastic. It's a paper town. I mean, look at it, Q: look at all those culs-de-sac, those streets that turn in on themselves, all the houses that were built to fall apart. All those paper people living in their paper houses, burning the future to stay warm. All the paper kids drinking beer some bum bought for them at the paper convenience store. Everyone demented with the mania of owning things. All the things paper-thin and paper-frail. And all the people, too. I've lived here for eighteen years and I have never once in my life come across anyone who cares about anything that matters.

Maybe all the strings inside him broke.