The world will break your heart ten ways to Sunday. That’s guaranteed. I can’t begin to explain that. Or the craziness inside myself and everyone else. But guess what? Sunday’s my favorite day again. I think of what everyone did for me, and I feel like a very lucky guy.
In your fantasies," she said, "my people are just like you. Only better. We don’t die or age or suffer from pain or cold or thirst. We’re snappier dressers. We possess the wisdom of the ages. And if we crave blood, well, it is no more than the way you people crave food or affection or sunlight - and besides, it gets us out of the house. Crypt. Coffin. Whatever.
Neil Gaiman, Fragile Things: Short Fictions and Wonders
"Bet I know something else you don’t. There’s dew on the grass in the morning."
He suddenly couldn’t remember if he had known this or not, and it made him quite irritable.
“And if you look”-she nodded at the sky-“there’s a man in the moon.”
He hadn’t looked for a long time.
I sometimes think drivers don’t know what grass is, or flowers, because they never see them
slowly,” she said. “If you showed a driver a green blur, Oh yes! he’d say, that’s grass! A pink
blur? That’s a rose-garden! White blurs are houses. Brown blurs are cows. My uncle drove
slowly on a highway once. He drove forty miles an hour and they jailed him for two days. Isn’t
that funny, and sad, too?