Books are always obviously having conversations with other books, and some times they're amiable and sometimes not.

Any moment called now is always full of possibles.

The summer stretched out the daylight as if on a rack. Each moment was drawn out until its anatomy collapsed. Time broke down. The day progressed in an endless sequence of dead moments.

We would never call inexplicable little insights 'hunches,' for fear of drawing the universe's attention. But they happened, and you knew you had been in the proximity of one that had come through if you saw a detective kiss his or her fingers and touch his or her chest where a pendant to Warsha, patron saint of inexplicable inspirations, would, theoretically, hang.

Part of the appeal of the fantastic is taking ridiculous ideas very seriously and pretending they're not absurd.