Can you shoot?" "I s'pose you mean can I hit anything? - Tim Winton

She was sick of conversations with people passing through. Nothing you said to each other mattered a damn because you'd never see them again.

Tomorrow'll be a new day. Which is really the same miserable fucking day all over again.

Our stories. We store them where moth and rust destroy. We're precious about them, no? Not because we treasure them at all, but because it's safer to hold them close. Am I reading you right? Do we have that much in common?