My arm was not what she needed, but the arm of someone else. My warmth was not what she needed, but the warmth of someone else.

Lots of different ways to live and lots of different ways to die. But in the end that doesn't make a bit of difference. All that remains is a desert.

People's memories are maybe the fuel they burn to stay alive.

ice contains no future , just the past, sealed away. As if they're alive, everything in the world is sealed up inside, clear and distinct. Ice can preserve all kinds of things that way- cleanly, clearly. That's the essence of ice, the role it plays.

For me, writing a novel is like having a dream. Writing a novel lets me intentionally dream while I'm still awake. I can continue yesterday's dream today, something you can't normally do in everyday life.

Not everything was lost in the flow of time

My heroes don't have anything special. They have something to tell other people but they don't know how, so they talk to themselves.