I really wanted to believe that there were these magic celestial bodies that would direct my life, tell me what to do, and it turns out it's not stars, it's some bits of screwy DNA. I'm just meat with faulty programming.

The problem with snapshots is that they replace actual memories. You lock down the moment and it becomes all there is of it.

Fashion is only different skins for different flavours of you.

It's hard to get justice in the real world. It's possible in fiction.

You have to get up pretty early in the morning to invent the news.

She would disappear folded like origami into her own dreams

Memory is curated. All this paraphernalia you collect to ward off forgetting