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.

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

She would disappear folded like origami into her own dreams

People don't want novelty - they want the reassurance of familiarity. No-one wants to be challenged, no-one wants to have their minds blown. There is an insatiable appetite for affirmation.

What I love about collaborating is that you're working with other minds that work differently to yours.

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

World needs more angels, even plywood ones.