Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it.

It is hungry, it it immortal. Worse, it knows nothing of whim.

Youth always tries to fill the void, an old man learns to live with it.

My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms.

...she still cannot resist looking out the window every couple of minutes. The sound of a passing truck causes her to glance away. Even if there is no sound, the weight of a hundred seconds always turns her head.

Physics depends on a universe infinitely centred on an equals sign.

And where there is no Echo there is no description of space or love. There is only silence.