When writing a novel, that's pretty much entirely what life turns into: 'House burned down. Car stolen. Cat exploded. Did 1500 easy words, so all in … - Neil Gaiman

In a perfect world, you could fuck people without giving them a piece of your heart. And every glittering kiss and every touch of flesh is another shard of heart you’ll never see again.

In every way that counted, I was dead. Inside somewhere maybe I was screaming and weeping and howling like an animal, but that was another person deep inside, another person who had no access to the lips and face and mouth and head, so on the surface I just shrugged and smile and kept moving. If I could have physically passed away, just let it all go, like that, without doing anything, stepped out of life as easily as walking through a door I would have done. But I was going to sleep at night and waking in the morning, disappointed to be there and resigned to existence.

The Doctor: Sorry, do you have a name?
Idris: Seven hundred years and finally he asks.
The Doctor: But what do I call you?
Idris: I think you call me... Sexy?
The Doctor: [embarrassed] Only when we're alone.
Idris: We are alone.
The Doctor: Oh. Come on then, Sexy.