Every seven years our bodies change, every cell. Every seven years, we disappear.

a little bird moves a mountain of sand one grain at a time it picks up one grain every million years and when the mountain has been moved the bird puts it all back again and that's how long eternity is and that's a very long time to be dead

Should we say something?’ Cal asks. ‘Goodbye, bird?’ I suggest. He nods. ‘Goodbye, bird. Thank you for coming. And good luck.

Three points for the dead slowly prising open the lids of their coffins. They want to hunt the living. They can't stop. Their throats have turned to liquid and their fingers glint under the weak autumn sun.

Keep breathing. Just keep doing it. It's easy. In and out.

Humans are made from nuclear ash of dead stars

Parents don't know their children at all. No one knows anyone, in fact.