I'll be fine ' Pen told me a little curtly. 'Where are you going anyway ' 'The United States. Alabama.' 'Looking for a change of scene ' 'Looking for a dead woman.' 'Get Jenna-Jane Mulbridge to come d...
It was a hot, moist armpit of a night...
Far as I can see, we mostly exist as *ideas* in each other's heads. The way *you* see me. The way my *boss* sees me. The way the *waitress* at Lindy's sees me.
Beliefs are collars to which leashes can be attached
You move on. You move back. On because you're always getting older, back because there's always a set of habits and routines to catch you and suck you back in when your guard is down.
There *is* no mortal sin. There are only *souls*, lost in a maze that someone *else* has made for them.
Even at its worst, there are tiny holes in the midnight canopy of my bad luck.
But Tom was not thinking about magic or struggle or the rest of his journey.
But you can't save people from the world.There's nowhere else to take them
It's a measure of how far I've come that I didn't bother to say, This is impossible.
Could it hurt to take a look? The answer was yes, of course. It's always yes. But I went anyway.
You never apologised to me for getting my legs broken either.I said sorry in my own way, Gary.
I will withhold death from you as long as you obey my one command. Bow down to no one. Worship no one. Not even me. Do you understand?
Because all the waters of the ocean won't fill a bucket with a hole in it. And that's their fall, and that's their fellowship. Desire. The hole in the bucket: the gulf of yearning into which the soul...
And there's a darker side to Peckham, too, once you get in deep: a side I like a lot more, because I identify with the past and prefer even worm-eaten wood to wipe-clean plastic.
The light of a hunter's moon bleached the unresisting pastels from the faces of the towers, so that they looked like titanic ribs of bone, and shadows accrued like crusted blood under the walkways.
Nothing matters more than the stories we tell ourselves to explain the world.
My mum’s getting married, said Cheryl. Again. At the Brompton Oratory. Fourth time around the track, this is. They don’t say ‘Till death us do part’ for my mum; they say ‘Who’s holding ticket number t...