Humans withdraw to their homes, and surrender the night to the creatures that own it: the crickets, the owls, the snakes. A world that hasn't changed for hundreds of thousands of years wakes up, and carries on as if the daylight and the humans and the changes to the landscape have all been an illusion.

That's how life goes on - protected by the silence that anesthetizes shame.

You don’t think ahead in years or months: you think about this hour, and maybe the next. Anything else is speculation.

The law's the law, but people are people.

Right and wrong can be like bloody snakes: so tangled up that you can't tell which is which until you've shot 'em both, and then it's too late.

Years bleach away the sense of things until all that's left is a bone-white past, stripped of feeling and significance.

Every end is the beginning of something else.