I reach out and take his hand. His fingers slide between mine. I can't breathe.

Candor does not provide us with protection, sustenance, or technological innovation. Therefore you are expendable to us.

I am a child. I am two feet tall, and asking if she loves me.

You look older.” “Yes, well. The passage of time tends to do that to a person.

If utopian fiction became the new trend, I wouldn't read it.

Instead I just let the silence stretch out between us. It's the only adequate response to what he just told me, the only that does the tragedy any justice instead of patching it hastily and moving on.

The official strategy is defensive pessimism, always.