Sometimes, in life, nothing happens. But, sometimes, nothing happens beautifully.

The tunnels of our lives connect, coming to daylight at the oddest moments, and then plunge us into the dark again. We return to the lives of those who have gone before us, a perplexing möbius strip until we come home, eventually, to ourselves.

The thing about love is that we come alive in bodies not our own.

This is not my life. These are not my cobwebs. This is not the darkness I was designed for.

He didn't like it all that much when he first came - all the rubbish and the rush - but it was growing on him, it wasn't half bad. Coming to the city was like entering a tunnel, he said, and finding to your surprise that the light at the end didn't matter; sometimes in fact the tunnel made the light tolerable.

He looks like the sort of man who can't afford to leave, and doesn't want to stay, and so he is doing both at once.

And I suddenly think, as I look across the table at him, that these are the days as they will be. This is the future as we see it. The swerve and the static. The confidence and the doubt.