"If patterns of ones and zeroes were "like" patterns of human lives and deaths, if everything about an individual could be represented in a computer … - Thomas Pynchon

San Narciso lay further south, near L.A. Like many named places in California it was less an identifiable city than a grouping of concepts — census tracts, special purpose bond-issue districts, shopping nuclei, all overlaid with access roads to its own freeway.

His life had been tied to the past. He’d seen himself a point on a moving wavefront, propagating through sterile history — a known past, a projectable future. But she was the breaking of the wave. Suddenly there was a beach, the unpredictable… new life. Past and future stopped at the beach: that was how he’d set it out. But he wanted to believe it too, the same way he loved her, past all words — believe that no matter how bad the time, nothing was fixed, everything could be changed and she could always deny the dark sea at his back, love it away. And (selfishly) that from a somber youth, squarely founded on Death — along for Death’s ride — he might, with her, find his way to life and to joy.

Man, I want to die, is all,' cried Ploy.
'Don't you know,' said Dahoud, 'that life is the most precious possession you have?'
'Ho, ho,' said Ploy through his tears. 'Why?'
'Because,' said Dahoud, 'without it, you'd be dead.