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

Best way to live in California is to be from somewheres else.

What deity in the realms of dementia, what rabid god decocted out of the smoking lobes of hydrophobia could have devised a keeping place for souls so poor as is this flesh. This mawky worm-bent tabernacle.

Query: How does the never to be differ from what never was?

Maybe it's like Mac says. Ever man winds up with the horse that suits him.

The man smiled at him a sly smile. As if they knew a secret between them, these two. Something of age and youth and their claims and the justice of those claims. And of their claims upon them. The world past, the world to come. Their common transciencies. Above all a knowing deep in the bone that beauty and loss are one.

But there are no absolutes in human misery and things can always get worse