It seems that so much writing is being done in the nineteenth-century model, where every connection has to be thoroughly explained.

What we don't understand we can make mean anything.

In the end, it's never what you worry about that gets you.

Your heart is my piñata.

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

Am I sleeping? Have I slept at all? This is insomnia.

My inventory of people who can save me is down to just me.