Edmund and May walked unhand-in-handed up a gold sidewalk, gold from the sun. Cars like the mad wall of wind, the wall of wind and sound and panic you learn to ignore. The hills in the distance like big mansion-flecked piles of money. And with the sidewalk, pure gold, and the noise of the cars, the wall of wind, and the step distance between them, and the slump-shirted bus stop sitter with the bags, Edmund felt like the invisible tie between them was worn like an old elastic on a pair of boxer-briefs. It never quite retracts all the way.

Edmund could be in the most beautiful damn place in the world and he would still look at his shoes when he walked. "How is the world made?" he thought to himself, and answered himself, "In layers. Like a cake."

Ice Cream - "Science"

There is something hiding in this book. In the space between the letters lies a language. When a phrase forms an image it is formed between the letters. When it's written "windows open", windows open and in crawl ghosts. When it says "she sighed" it's heard between the letters, through her teeth like smoke. So to read "I am science," it's understandably dangerous, things may feel haunted then forever after that.