The world was a sick animal, a sort of huge cancerous tumour, a thing of bubbling liquids, whitish patches, dribbling pus, fantastic pimples of dead skin that grew in all directions, swelled up, became more and more like fuzzy hair. The right thing would be to go away, to vanish for ever from the face of the sun.

You want to know what I want? I'm sick of being a guinea pig. I'm sick, but I'm never f*cking sick enough for this family.

He thought that he was sick in his heart if you could be sick in that place.

Sometimes I think illness sits inside every woman, waiting for the right moment to bloom. I have known so many sick women all my life. Women with chronic pain, with ever-gestating diseases. Women with conditions. Men, sure, they have bone snaps, they have backaches, they have a surgery or two, yank out a tonsil, insert a shiny plastic hip. Women get consumed.

Maybe I'm just sick of putting more into this friendship than I get out of it.

How do you feel?— she asked, trying to fluff his pillow. "Other than terrible, I mean."He moved his head slightly to the side. It seemed to be a sickly interpretation of a shrug."Of course you're feeling terrible," she clarified, —but is there any change? More terrible? Less terrible?"He made no response."The same amount of terrible?