For the poor any choice was a gift with two faces.

They rode like men invested with a purpose whose origins were antecedent to them, like blood legatees of an order both imperative and remote. For although each man among them was discrete unto himself, conjoined they made a thing that had not been before and in that communal soul were wastes hardly reckonable more than those whited regions on old maps where monsters do live and where there is nothing other of the known world save conjectural winds.

The nights were blinding cold and casket black and the long reach of the morning had a terrible silence to it.

Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.

The voice of the Almighty speaks most profoundly in such things as lives in silence themselves.

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

I yearn for the darkness. I pray for death. Real death. If I thought that in death I would meet the people I've known in life I don't know what I'd do. That would be the ultimate horror. The ultimate despair. If I had to meet my mother again and start all of that all over, only this time without the prospect of death to look forward to? Well. That would be the final nightmare. Kafka on wheels.