Stuart Turton

cut short by the sight of my own hands. They’re bony, ugly. A stranger’s hands. I don’t recognise them at all.

Obeying the voice, I squeeze my eyes shut but all I can hear is my own panicked wheezing. For the longest time it crushes every other sound, but slowly, ever so slowly, I work a hole in my fear, allowing other noises to break through. Raindrops are tapping the leaves, branches rustling overhead.

they trample it underfoot.

Why else would a murderer gift me this compass, if not to lead me into the jaws of some greater evil

I cannot confront the person I was by running from the life he built

I suddenly have the sense of taking part in a play in which everybody knows their lines but me

Because eternity is dull

After all, a race is hard to win if you’re afraid of reaching the finish line

The future isn’t a warning my friend—it’s a promise—and it won’t be broken by us. That’s the nature of the trap we’re caught in.”

What kind of mind makes theater of murder