Everyone lives three versions of themselves; a public life, a private life and a secret life.

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

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

World needs more angels, even plywood ones.

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.

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.

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