Father says it will come in time. “Time heals,” he says. I don’t tell him that I don’t know what time is.

Do certain events in our lives leave a permanent mark, freezing a piece of us in time, and that becomes a touchstone that we measure the rest of our lives against?

I don't want five hundred billion neural chips. I want guts.

There is something about her eyes. Eyes don't breathe. I know that much. But hers look breathless.

On a small planet, where minute follows minute, day follows day, year follows year, where tradition marches on with a deafening, orderly beat -sometimes the order is disturbed by a dreamer, an artist, a scribbler - sometimes the beat is changed one person at a time.

...and time becomes a forgotten detail.

What I think is all I have left. My mind is the only thing that makes me different from a fancy toaster. What we think does matter-it's all we truly have.