The thing about delirium is you think it's great, but it actually isn't.

It had helped to keep her sane, that writing. Then, when time had begun again and real people had entered it, she'd abandoned it here. Now it's a whisper from the past. Is that what writing amounts to? The voice your ghost would have, if it had a voice?

Myths can't be translated as they did in their ancient soil. We can only find our own meaning in our own time.

Some of our earliest writing, in cuneiform, was about who owes what.

Night falls. Or has fallen. Why is it that night falls, instead of rising, like the dawn? Yet if you look east, at sunset, you can see night rising, not falling; darkness lifting into the sky, up from the horizon, like a black sun behind cloud cover. Like smoke from an unseen fire, a line of fire just below the horizon, brushfire or a burning city. Maybe night falls because it’s heavy, a thick curtain pulled up over the eyes. Wool blanket.

If I love you, is that a fact or a weapon?

We shouldn't have been so scornful; we should have had compassion. But compassion takes work, and we were young.