Vera Phillips

— It's mine, isn't it? What you write.
— All my words and every heartbeat, they're all for you.

— What have you got against me, Vera Phillips?
— You might be dead tomorrow.
— Live while you can, live all you can.

— It doesn't mean anything, fucking. It's not love.
— I get an itch, it's got to be scratched. I'd do it myself, only I'm too lazy. Why bother, when you can get someone else to do it for you?
— Nothing to do with love, fucking?
— Uh-uh. Nothing.