A couple drinks. A couple aspirin. Repeat.

In light this bright, after so long in the dark, everything we can see is only black and white. Only glaring shape-outlines we have to blink against.

Sticks and stones may break your bones but words can hurt like hell.

Folks build a reputation by attacking you while you’re alive - or praising you after you ain’t.

It's creepy, but here we are, the Pilgrims, the crackpots of our time, trying to establish our own alternate reality. To build a world out of rocks and chaos. What it's going to be, I don't know. Even after all that rushing around, where we've ended up is the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night. And maybe knowing isn't the point. Where we're standing right now, in the ruins in the dark, what we build could be anything.

The truth is, immigrants tend to be more American than people born here.

To merely observe your culture without contributing to it seems very close to existing as a ghost.