So are you an inmate or a rubbernecker?" she asks. "Rubbernecker," I answer without hesitation. "You?" "I'm a screw. Or on staff, anyway. Used to be an inmate. Repeat offender. Crimes against my body. Puking sickness followed by heroin, which led to more puking sickness." I'd be surprised at her forthrightness, but that's addicts for you. The twelve steps crack 'em open and then they can't shut up.

The future is not as loud as war, but it is relentless. It has a terrible fury all its own.

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.

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

There are only so many plots in the world. It's how they unfold that makes them interesting.

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

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