some mornings... I sit at the kitchen table shaking salt into the hairs on my arm, and a feeling shoves up in me: it's finished. Everything went past without me.

Sure, everything is ending," Jules said, "but not yet.

Time’s a goon, right? You gonna let that goon push you around?” Scotty shook his head. “The goon won.

Soiled, forgotten coats of arms were carved above their massive doorways, and these unsettled Ted: such universal, defining symbols made meaningless by nothing more than time.

I can't tell if she's actually real, or if she's stopped caring if she's real or not. Or is not caring what makes a person real?

Like all failed experiments, that one taught me something I didn’t expect: one key ingredient of so-called experience is the delusional faith that it is unique and special, that those included in it are privileged and those excluded from it are missing out.