Agents of Dreamland

Wanting to be drunk, needing to stay sober.

Too often, it occurs to him that he’s lived just long enough to have completely outlived the world that made sense to him, the world where he fit. He

Fear is a poison that binds the minds of men and women to the same stone where Prometheus' liver is devoured forever by the cruel beaks of hungry birds.

Eventually you’ve got to understand that an answer isn’t the same thing as a solution, and a story is sometimes only an excuse.

You are who you are, until you aren’t anymore.

He’s drifting off, and the movie is beginning to blur together with half-formed dreams. Tomorrow, he’ll have trouble remembering which bits of the story were actually part of the movie and which bits he made up in his sleep.

They have pie,” he tells her as she settles into the seat across from him. “Lemon meringue. And blueberry, too. Welcome to Winslow.

He caught a lucky break, got a tip from a CI, a schizophrenic who’s spent the last two decades creating a concordance for the Weekly World News, “the World’s Only Reliable News,” painstakingly cataloging and correlating everything from Jersey Devil sightings to Bat Boy, from Israeli mermaids to the discovery of an alien spacecraft at the bottom of the Baltic Sea.

Time is the navigator, and we are only hitchhikers.

All things are alone in time.

She takes off her sunglasses, and he wishes that she hadn’t.

What the fuck do you say about a place whose sole claim to fame is a mention in an Eagles song?

I’d give a hundred bucks for a shot of rye whiskey, he thinks, and swallows hard. I’d give a million to blow her fucking brains out.

In imposing order, it’s easy to miss the obvious.