Pick a sin we can both live with, is what I ask.

You'll have pie in the sky when you die.

She breathed deeply of the scent of decaying fiction, disintegrating history, and forgotten verse, and she observed for the first time that a room full of books smelled like dessert: a sweet snack made of figs, vanilla, glue, and cleverness.

Who knows what may lie around the next corner? There may be a window somewhere ahead. It may look out on a field of sunflowers.

She liked things that had been written by people who had lived short, ugly, and tragic lives. Or, who at least, were English.

... people made the imaginary real all the time: taking the music they heard in their head and recording it, seeing a house in their imagination and building it. Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.

Well. That's helpful. We'll put an APB out on the Gingerbread Man. I'm not hopeful it'll do us much good, though. Word on the street is you can't catch him.