Every end is the beginning of something else.

History is that which is agreed upon by mutual consent.

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

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

To have any kind of a future you've got to give up hope of ever changing your past.

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.

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.