Being who you are for ever is the price you pay for im­mor­tal­ity.

There is no greater love than a maker’s for the things she makes. Especially when they grow to be something she never imagined.

«Per­ho­nen is not here any­more,» it says, with a voice made of wings and whis­pers.

Live on berries in a hollowed-out comet lit by artificial suns long enough, and you start to have delusions about achieving enlightenment.