Fate isn't some middle-aged man with a squint who won't recognize you if you change your clothes.

It's a strange sensation to live inside another person's life, to wonder all the time what he is doing, or thinking or feeling.

If there was ever a more perfect day in the history of time it isn't one I've heard about.

I'm a century old, an impossible age, and my brain has no anchor in the present. Instead it drifts, nearly always to the same shore. Today, as most days, it is 1962. The year I discovered love.

I frightened myself. I became the ghost Piper was so scared of.

At the time, I didn't have the insight to wonder at the transient nature of despair, but now that I'm older I've seen how little it takes to turn a person's life around for better or worse. An event will do, or an Idea. Another person. An idea of a person.

I didn't seem to have that effect on anyone but it would have been a waste for both of us to be saints.