The NET is a waste of time, and that's exactly what's right about it.

The sky above the port was the color of television, tuned to a dead channel.

The past is past, the future unformed. There is only the moment, and that is where he prefers to be.

They damaged his nervous system with a wartime Russian mycotoxin. Strapped to a bed in a Memphis hotel, his talent burning out micron by micron, he hallucinate…