I wonder how well she sleeps at night, and what kind of dreams she has. I wish I could step into them like she steps into mine.

But it does make me sad that we've forgotten our names. Out of everything, this seems to me the most tragic. I miss my own and I mourn for everyone else's, because I'd like to love them, but I don't know who they are.

I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.

We will cry and bleed and lust and love, and we will cure death. We will be the cure. Because we want it.

It's more eerie to be alone in a city that's lit up and functioning than one that's a tomb. If everything were silent, one could almost pretend to be in nature. A forest. A meadow. Crickets and birdsong. But the corpse of civilization is as restless as the creatures that now roam the graveyards.

...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?

We eat and sleep and shuffle through the fog, walking a marathon with no finish line, no medals, no cheering.