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

Only other people can make you feel real.

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

Fashion is only different skins for different flavours of you.

There are patterns because we try to find them. A desperate attempt at order because we can't face the terror that it might all be random.