The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead station.

Novels set in imaginary futures are necessarily about the moment in which they are written.

I don't always like writing, but I very much like having written.

His eyes were eggs of unstable crystal, vibrating with a frequency whose name was rain and the sound of trains, suddenly sprouting a humming forest of hair-fine glass spines.

We are that strange species that constructs artifacts intended to counter the natural flow of forgetting.

He'd been numb a long time, years. All his nights down Ninsei, his nights with Linda, numb in bed and numb at the cold sweating center of every drug deal. But now he'd found this warm thing, this chip of murder. Meat, some part of him said. It's the meat talking, ignore it.

The future is here - it just has not been uniformly distributed.