Quotes About Isolation

You get a glass tank, put it where the TV used to be, and all you get is a lizard—something so stupid that every time the maid moves a rock the lizard thinks it's been relocated miles away.

Every family is a regular little cult.

When you're dead probably not even homeless people and retarded people will want to trade you places.

In the outside world, he told me, there was no real silence.

Days she's wasted locked up here in this room, and nothing she's done is half as good as the sketch of a chair she did while shitting her pants.

Peo­ple used what they called a tele­phone be­cause they hat­ed be­ing close to­geth­er and they were too scared of be­ing alone.

Adam said the other blessing you have to give up in the outside world is darkness. You can close your eyes, and sit in a cupboard, but that's not the same thing. The darkness at night in the church district colony is complete. The stars are thick above us in this kind of darkness. You can see how the moon is rough with mountain ranges and etched with rivers and smoothed with oceans. On a night without the moon or stars you can't see a thing, but you can imagine anything.

Making all effort resist absorption into American cult of the individual, traditional method entrenched oligarchy so maintain own power: Fracture citizen isolated into different religion, different race, different family. Label as rich cultural diversity. Cleave as unique until each citizen stand alone. Until each vote invested no value. Single citizen celebrated as special-in actual, remaining no power.

This is how it is with insomnia. Everything is so far away, a copy of a copy of a copy. The insomnia distance of everything, you can't touch anything and nothing can touch you.

You could choke on the silence.

You're that tree falling in the forest that nobody gives a rat's ass about.

At least Anne Frank," Comrade Snarky said, "never had to tour with her book . . .

The big wet face settles down on top of my head, and I am lost inside. This is when I'd cry. Crying is right at hand in the smothering dark, closed inside someone else, when you see how everything you can ever accomplish will end up as trash.

Nobody cared if he lived or died, and the feeling was fucking mutual.

People in the outside world said something stupid with their every breath, and when they didn't talk their radios filled the gap with the copied voices of people singing the same songs over and over.

Somewhere outside the hospital, in a motel room full of bloody towels with his tool box of knives and needles, or driving down the highway to his next victim, or kneeling over a dog, drugged and cut up in a dirty bathtub, is the man a million dogs must hate.

Everything is nothing by itself.

I am Joe's Enraged, Inflamed, sense of rejection.

My mom would spy by satellite, turning down the air conditioning, colder and colder, with a tapping keystroke via her wireless connection, chilling that house, that one room, meat locker cold, ski-slope cold, spending a king's ransom on Freon and electric power, trying to make some doomed ten bucks' worth of pretty pink flowers last one more day.

Still, the better she could draw, the worse her life got--until nothing in her real world was good enough. It got until she didn't belong anywhere. It got so nobody was good enough, refined enough, real enough. Not the boys in high school. Not the other girls. Nothing was real as her imagined world.

Maybe self-destruction is the answer.

With all of the seats empty, you could pretend everyone's just gone to the bathroom.

I'm an invisible monster, and I'm incapable of loving anybody. You don't know which is worse.

Ev­ery­one else I could call is dead.