The Fall of Koli

It’s called fascism, Koli-bou. It’s like ra-ra skirts and flared trousers. People get all hot for it and make themselves look ridiculous, then when the fad blows over they pretend they were never that into it.

Grief's not a debt we owe. It wells up or it doesn't.

People need to know what was done and by who. They need to know how their present grows out of this past, or else they're no more than windblown seeds.

The world we got now is one we builded with our own hands, and as far as I can see it's in a pretty sorry state. That's what comes of thinking you're the master and the world's just there to serve you.

Humankind was masters of the whole world once, wasn’t they? That’s what the database says. We was masters of trees, masters of tech, masters of birds and beasts and earth and sky and everything. “And look what we did, Jon. Look what a dead-god-damned mess we made of it. The world we got now is one we builded with our own hands, and as far as I can see it’s in a pretty sorry state. That’s what comes of thinking you’re the master, and the world’s just there to serve you.

It's not often our hearts sing out of tune with each other.

I had made so many mistakes since then, I couldn't even count them no more. If I could unpick my whole life like a pattern in wove cloth, I would do it in a heartbeat. But life's not forgiving either, and we only get one chance to weave what pattern we can.

Right after something's happened, you keep on living it over again and it's almost more real than when it was happening.

There's no way of knowing from the inside either, is there? Are these thoughts me? Are they a current that runs through me? A space where I move? Or am I the current? The movement? The interplay of the two? The sound of one byte incrementing? Asking for a friend.