They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.

But I do like churches. The way it feels inside. It feels good when you just sit there, like you're in a forest and everything's really quiet, expect there's still this sound you can't hear.

Each of us, I suppose needs his illusions. Life after death. A maker of planets. A woman to love, a man to hate. Something sacred. But what a waste.

Imagination, like reality, has its limits.

In any war story, but especially a true one, it's difficult to separate what happened from what seemed to happen.

They carried the sky. The whole atmosphere, they carried it, the humidity, the monsoons, the stink of fungus and decay, all of it, they carried gravity.

I survived, but it's not a happy ending.