Everything ends. I am not afraid.
Dr. Eleven, Vol. 1, No. 1: Station Eleven
Do you remember when we were young and gorgeous?
The broken-windows theory of urban-crime management, the way the appearance of dereliction can pave the way for more serious crimes.
It is possible to survive this but not unaltered, and you will carry these men with you through all the nights of your life.
He’s got a terrible marriage and doesn’t want to go home, and don’t ask how I know that, everyone knows when you’ve got a terrible marriage, it’s like having bad breath, you get close enough to a pers...
We long only to go home,’ Kirsten said. This was from the first issue, Station Eleven. A face-off between Dr. Eleven and an adversary from the Undersea. ‘We dream of sunlight, we dream of walking on...
This one's my other favorite. 'He's successful in interfacing with clients we already have, but as for new clients, it's low-hanging fruit. He takes a high-altitude view, but he doesn't drill down to...
This is going to seem bitter but I don't mean it that way, V., I'm just stating a fact here: you'll only ever call me if I call you first. Have you noticed that? If I call and leave a message you'll c...
There had been countries, and borders. It was hard to explain. In
There are certain qualities of light that blur the years.
That kind of insanity’s contagious,
Some people had mixed feelings about this - they'd obviously been abandoned here, everyone was hungry and 911 wasn't even operational; on the other hand, no one wants to be a thief - but then a busine...
She’d pressed her forehead to the window and saw clusters and pinpoints of light in the darkness, scattered constellations linked by roads or alone. The beauty of it, the loneliness, the thought of al...
She was unmoored and her memories were eroding in the sunlight,
She stopped for a decaf latte at a Starbucks and was struck by the barista’s brilliant green hair. Your hair’s beautiful, she said, and the barista smiled.
She started to explain her project to him again but the words stopped in her throat. 'You don't have to understand it,' she said. 'It's mine.
No more Internet. No more social media, no more scrolling through litanies of dreams and nervous hopes and photographs of lunches, cries for help and expressions of contentment and relationship-status...
It occurred to Clark that he should call someone, actually everyone, that he should call everyone he’d ever loved and talk to them and tell them all the things that mattered, but it was apparently alr...
I don’t really remember what computer screens looked like,