We're all trapped. It's always 1734. All of us, we're stuck in the same time capsule, the same as those television shows where the same people are marooned on the same desert island for thirty seasons and never age or escape. They just wear more makeup. In a creepy way, those shows are maybe too authentic.

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.

Everyone has something wrong. And for a while, her heart just sort of flat lined.

You love me. You ignore me. You save my life, then you cook my mother into soap.

The feeling is less like an ending than just another starting point.

Her voice makes me think of her mouth makes me think of her breath makes me think of her breasts.

After you find out all the things that can go wrong, your life becomes less about living and more about waiting.