Every end is the beginning of something else.

When he wakes sometimes from dark dreams of broken cradles, and compasses without bearings, he pushes the unease down, lets the daylight contradict it. And isolation lulls him with the music of the lie.

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.

Sometimes life turns out hard, Isabel. Sometimes it just bites right through you. And sometimes, just when you think it's done its worst, it comes back and takes another chunk.

Every end is the beginning of something else.

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