The priests and the scientists are right about one thing: At our heart, at our base, we are no better than animals.

The hours here are flat and round, disks of gray layered one on top of the other...they move slowly, at a grind, until it seems as though they are not moving at all. They are just pressing down.

It's not my fault I can't be like you, okay? I don't get up in the morning thinking the world is one big, shiny, happy place, okay? That's just not how I work. I don't think I can be fixed.

It was a bird. A bird struggling through stickiness: a bird coated in paint, floundering in its nest, splashing color everywhere. Red. Red. Red. Dozens of them: black feathers coated thickly with crimson-colored paint, fluttering among the branches. Red means run.

This was what being cured was like: like being in a fishbowl, circling always inside the same glass.

Even the greatest movements on earth, have their beginnings with something small.

The first one, we’ll name Blue.