What is this called, what I am doing, to myself, to my life, this wallowing, this pondering, this rolling over and over in the same places of my memory, wearing them thin, wearing them out? Why don't I ever learn? Why don't I ever do anything different?

Most people I know live their lives moving in a constant forward direction, the whole time looking backward.

Time is a machine: it will convert your pain into experience... It will force you to move on and you will not have a choice in the matter.

At some point in your life, this statement will be true: tomorrow you will lose everything forever.

You want to tell a story? Grow a heart. Grow two. Now, with the second heart, smash the first one into bits.

All anyone is to anyone is a series of days.

Sometimes at night I worry about TAMMY. I worry that she might get tired of it all. Tired of running at sixty-six terahertz, tired of all those processing cycles, every second of every hour of every day. I worry that one of these cycles she might just halt her own subroutine and commit software suicide. And then I would have to do an error report, and I don't know how I would even begin to explain that to Microsoft.