". . .Or, instead, they might meet on a Sunday, in the church where Lucy, growing up in a household with a second, heavenly, father, had been lead to believe every honorable man and every patient lady ends up. They would see eachother dressed in their nicest clothing. Such clothing that if the chance arose their wedding could happen that very day; and in her little universe, where lovers can meet and remeet as many times as desired, they usually did. . ."

"Alan Milby's daily life began with the setting of the sun and rarely before. On occassion he would venture out into the early evening for life's necessities, but these adventures were, as he would say: "to be avoided." Rather, his time was spent as he preferred: on his property, with his good eye peering through his favorite telescope, transfixed by the stars and celestial bodies all disguised by the distance of time. . ."

"The town station lies at the crossroad of the paths taken by local carriages and cars, and the passenger railway's northern line that takes it's passengers to and from the city. Marlee arrived on a sunny autumn day. A last return to where she grew up; a place she left in a rush some time before turning twenty. Over time she had grown used to the mountains which with time she had come to see as hills, the trees became stiff and squat, the people common and stale, and the once exciting hidden corners and secrets she discovered in her childhood became expected and dull into her teens. The shrinking valley, from any angle she could find, had become a cage of fading beauty. A prison without bars of iron, but seemingly inescapable walls of stone guarded by distance. . ."

"The monitor at the side of his bed continues to announce the slow unwinding of his biological clock at a currently steady rate of seventy-eight heartbeats per minute. Eyes closed; ignoring the indifferent white walls, the signs about living healthily, and the lifeless decoration of mass-produced photographs; the beeping of the monitor remains a constant reminder of the situation. . ."

"The view from the airplane window I had been admiring as we came in for landing is now obscured by the small airport as the automated pilot pulls us into the gate. I was alone on the flight last time too. My uncle's family, and some of his friends, will arrive later and each, depending on their familiarity with me or my parents, pretend they belong here as much as the next liar. My family aren't coming. Even if they had been invited, they know it'd be a bad look for my uncle to show up in any way other than in the comments about how inspiring it is that my uncle has given me the chances my parents never could. . ."

"Plin feels as though her arms get in the way of her sleep. Nightly she lies awake, exhausted, imagining what wonderful dreams she might never experience due to her uncompromising limbs. . ."

"The belief was of course unfounded. Still, the lightness in his chest gave rise to the feeling that he might, at any moment, fall from his bed, up to the ceiling, no longer tethered by gravity. Despite his conviction that this belief was ridiculous, he still decided to, rather than force his eyes closed and wait for sleep, get up and look for some object heavy enough to hold him down; ease his worries. . ."

“'Dear God,' my body shakes with uneasy breath—It's strange, returning here: the body of an old man; curled up and behaving like he were still a child; a child whose parents still dragged him to the local church every Sunday morning, pressed into uncomfortable, stiff clothing. . ."

"The rain on this planet doesn't feel like Earth's but it's hard to explain why. Chemically it's the same as far as I'm aware: water plus; it's still a clear blue and smells the same when it meets the dirt; the only thing that's changed is the planet. . ."

". . .Holding a side of the loosely drifting curtains she watches as passers-by begin the task of reviving the weekend market at the small square at one end of her usually quiet street. Small carts clatter on the cobblestones as vans and scooters carrying the products of local workshops and the produce of distant farms fill the air with the putter of combustion engines and puffs of exhaust that slowly build upon the thin grey clouds that already absorb the city. . ."

"The construction across the street woke me. Still not used to the soundscape of the city, I was overwhelmed by its ability to grow beyond the already impressive horns, sirens, and shouts that marked that restless night. No soft two-tone alarm of a Black-Capped Chicadee; no gentle rustle of leaves backed by a calmlmy falling river; only the Northern Flicker remained, though artificially; still dressed in yellow and hard headed as ever: drumming on the ground. . ."