The things that I loved were very frail. Very fragile. I didn't know that. I thought they were indestructible. They weren't.

He stood at the window of the empty cafe and watched the activites in the square and he said that it was good that God kept the truths of life from the young as they were starting out or else they'd have no heart to start at all.

Yet it is the narrative that is the life of the dream while the events themselves are often interchangeable. The events of the waking world on the other hand are forced upon us and the narrative is the unguessed axis along which they must be strung.

Ah me, thou Destiny, Giver of evil gifts.

The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening. Often he had to get up. No sound but the wind in the trees. He rose and stood tottering in that cold autistic dark with his arms outheld for balance while the vestibular calculations in his skull cranked out their reckonings.

I was afraid I was goin to die and then I was afraid I wasnt.

I can normally tell how intelligent a man is by how stupid he thinks I am.