He’s quiet then. We lie next to each other, twin corpses waiting for burial.

Everything was strange and beautiful and swollen with possibilities.

Every hero is the villain of his own story.

I like all the things that make you monstrous.

Jones looks like he wants to slug me, which is only subtly different from his usual way of looking at me like I'm a slug.

Memory is slippery. It bends to our understanding of the world, twists to accommodate our prejudices. It is unreliable. Witnesses seldom remember the same things. They identify the wrong people. They give us the details of events that never happened. Memory is slippery, but my memories suddenly feel slipperier.

I have no memory of climbing the stairs up to the roof. I don't even know how to get where I am, which is a problem since I'm going to have to get down, ideally in a way that doesn't involve dying.