“Things like Clef and me do not have homes,” he said. “When you outlive civilizations, the conceit gets a little moot. You could say that we were once people, and thus had homes and lives, and this is true—but it is a little like the glass out there on those flats. In some places it has returned to sand, but in others it is thick and hard, and resists any cracking or crumbling. Is it then still sand, or is it glass? Does it remember being sand? Or does it matter after such a transmutation?”
