I lied to myself that it was over. I was still alive, my loved ones were still dead. It wasn't over.

I didn't deserve to walk away. There are no happy endings.

A bomb went off in my head. The bullet lodged in my brain moved a fatal, microscopic distance.

Everything had started out as black and white. Somewhere down the road, the line went blurry, the colors started to run, got smudged and gray. Winterson had been above my suspicion. It felt like a goodbye.

There was a blind spot in my head, a bullet-shaped hole where the answers should be. Call it denial. I wanted to dig inside my skull and scrape out the pain.

Kissing her, I think of the cold laws of cause and effect.

Mona's appearance had triggered a dislocation. Schizophrenia. I felt elation, but with it, fear that all the past evils had come along for the ride.

Home sweet home. Something in the night felt like a door had been opened, an echo of the past, an old monster snapping its eyes open in the depths of my brain. Closing your eyes forces you to look at the darkness inside.

A funhouse is a linear sequence of scares. Take it or leave it is the only choice given. Makes you think about free will. Had our choices been made for us because of who we are?

(Narration, after having seen Mona Sax, whom he thought dead) If you think nothing can get to you, you're lying to yourself. At best you're temporarily dead. A lightning bolt could re-animate you without a warning.