Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep?

“My schedule for today lists a six-hour self-accusatory depression,”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have told you—about it being electrical.” She put her hand out, touched his arm; she felt guilty, seeing the effect it had on him, the change.

“No,” Rick said. “I’m glad to know. Or rather—” He became silent. “I’d prefer to know.”

“How can I save you,” the old man said, “if I can’t save myself?” He smiled. “Don’t you see? There is no salvation.”

I never felt like that before. Maybe it could be a depression, like you get. I can understand now how you suffer when you’re depressed; I always thought you liked it and I thought you could have snapped yourself out any time, if not alone then by means of the mood organ. But when you get that depressed you don’t care. Apathy, because you’ve lost a sense of worth. It doesn’t matter whether you feet better because if you have no worth—”

You think I’m suffering because I’m lonely. Hell, all Mars is lonely. Much worse than this

The rubbish-littered, lifeless roof of his apartment building as always depressed him.

Maybe when you deteriorate back down the ladder of evolution —as I have, when you sink into the tomb world slough of being a special—well, best to abandon that line of inquiry.

More of your chickenbead imagination, I suppose.

"I'm from the San Francisco Police Department," he said

In silence Rick Deckard plucked open the door of his hovercar. He had nothing further to say to his neighbor; his mind was on his work, on the day ahead.