It is like reading two books, one with each eye, and understanding them both.

M. and I ground against each other as if we were ill-fitting jigsaw pieces determined to jam together, even though one showed sidewalk, the other sky.

Certain parts of me became a little bit forgotten, a little bit numb, a little bit dead, and it was nice to have some dead places in me for a little while, to lose a little bit of my broken mind.

There's no way for me to warn you about the terrible things that I know are going to happen.

What's happened to her? The person that she is seems like a shell designed to cover up the person that Harold once knew her to be.

Perhaps my gift to you will be as simple as a single word, whispered into your ear by one of your servants as you lie on your deathbed, a word that solves a final mystery and makes it easy for you to slip quietly into the dark.