... we shoved out many hopes and fears into their hands, believing those hands were strong because they had firm handshakes. They failed us, always. There was no way they could not fail us - they were human, and so were we.

But we don’t remember those lives. We can’t read our diaries.’ ‘It doesn’t matter. We are where we are, however we got here. What matters is where we go next.’ ‘But can we choose that?’ ‘I don’t know.’ ‘We’re Dead. Can we really choose anything?’ ‘Maybe. If we want to bad enough.

Nothing is permanent. Not even the end of the world.

Is this muteness a real physical handicap? One of the many symptoms of being Dead?Or do we just have nothing left to say?

No praise, no blame. Just so.

Every experience, good or bad, is a priceless collector's item.

It's rare that I read more than two or three books by any one author, usually only one.