The moon is a stone and the sky is full of deadly hardware, but oh God, how beautiful anyway. - Margaret Atwood

Walking into the crowd was like sinking into a stew - you became an ingredient, you took on a certain flavour.

Every habit he's ever had is still there in his body, lying dormant like flowers in the desert. Given the right conditions, all his old addictions would burst into full and luxuriant bloom.

I lie on the floor, washed by nothing and hanging on. I cry at night. I am afraid of hearing voices, or a voice. I have come to the edge, of the land. I could get pushed over.