In reality the world is made of thousands of groups of about five hundred people, all of whom will spend their lives bumping into each other, trying to avoid each other, and discovering each other in the same unlikely teashop in Vancouver. There is an unavoidability to this process. It's not even coincidence. It's just the way the world works, with no regard for individuals or propriety.

Chicago happened slowly, like a migraine. First they were driving through countryside, then, imperceptibly, the occasional town became a low suburban sprawl, and the sprawl became the city.

This was the void. Not blackness, not nothingness. This was what lay beneath the thinly painted scrim of reality.

I can believe things that are true and things that aren't true and I can believe things where nobody knows if they're true or not.

I went away in my head, into a book. That was where I went whenever real life was too hard or too inflexible.

Do you know why I stopped being Delight, my brother? I do. There are things not in your book. There are paths outside this garden.

The cartoon me writes the books cartoon people read in the cartoon world, because they need things to read there too.