Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.

I remember in grammar school the teacher asked if anyone had any hobbies. I was the only one with any hobbies and I had every hobby there was... name anything, no matter how esoteric. I could have given everyone a hobby and still had 40 or 50 to take home.

Men believe death's elections to be a thing inscrutable yet every act invites the act which follows and to the extent that men put one foot before the other they are accomplices in their own deaths as in all such facts of destiny.

Can you do it? When the time comes? When the time comes there will be no time. Now is the time. Curse God and die.

Words pale and lose their savor while pain is always new.

What he could bear in the waking world he could not by night and he sat awake for fear the dream would return.

We think we are the victims of time. In reality, the way of the world isn't fixed anywhere. How could that be possible? We are our own journey. And therefore we are time as well. We are the same. Fugitive. Inscrutable. Ruthless.