Recursion

by Blake Crouch

It is the lonely hour of the night, one with which he is all too familiar—when the city sleeps but you don’t, and all the regrets of your life rage in your mind with an unbearable intensity.

“As in Guy Fawkes—remember, remember the fifth of November?” “Oh. Right. Because memory?” “Because disrupting the status quo is kind of my thing.

Blegh

There are so few things in our existence we can count on to give us the sense of permanence, of the ground beneath our feet. People fail us. Our bodies fail us. We fail ourselves. He’s experienced all of that. But what do you cling to, moment to moment, if memories can simply change. What, then, is real? And if the answer is nothing, where does that leave us?

That’s one of the great things about New York—no one cares about your emotional state as long as there’s no blood involved. Crying on the sidewalk in the middle of the day is no less private than crying in your bedroom in the middle of the night. Maybe it’s because no one cares. Maybe it’s because it’s a brutal city, and they’ve all been there at one time or another.

“Helena Smith, and if you go into Slade’s building with Gwen, it will lead to the end of everything.”

Alright now we are cookin

“Making a save point.”

:I

“My soul knows your soul. In any time.”