I'm coming for you. I'm coming home, I'm coming to clean - Hugh Howey

Apologies weren’t welds; they were just an admission that something had been broken.

Imagination, she figured, just wasn't up to the task of understanding unique and foreign sensations. It only knew how to dampen or augment what it already knew. It would be like telling someone what sex felt like, or an orgasm. Impossible. But once you felt it yourself, you could then imagine varying degrees of this new sensation.

It was the same as color. You could only describe a new color in terms of hues previously seen. You could mix the known, but you couldn't create the strange out of nothing.

This is not the end, of course. Every story we read, every film we watch, continues in our imagination if we allow it.