It was all a jumble in his mind, the technicolor Ozness of the other place dissolving back into the sepia tones of reality.

Things. They came up. That’s what things do. They come up.

It is astonishing just how much of what we are can be tied to the beds we wake up in in the morning, and it is astonishing how fragile that can be.

You people talk about the living and the dead as if they were two mutually exclusive categories. As if you cannot have a river that is also a road, or a song that is also a colour.

The first thing was “I love you,” because it’s a good thing to say if you can mean it.

Sometimes, he realized, there is nothing you can do.