- Stewart: I work all day and get half drunk at night. Waking at four to soundless dark, I stare. In time, the curtain-edges will grow light. Till then I see what's always really there: unresting death. The mind blanks at the glare. Not in remorse, the good not done, the love not given, time torn off unused. But at the total emptiness forever, the sure extinction that we travel to, and shall be lost in always. Not to be here, not to be anywhere, and soon. Nothing more terrible, nothing more true. This is a special way of being afraid. No trick dispels. Religion used to try, that vast moth-eaten musical brocade, created to pretend we never die. And specious stuff that says no rational being can fear a thing it will not feel. Not seeing that this is what we fear, no sight, no sound, no touch or taste or smell. Nothing to think with, nothing to love or link with, the anesthetic from which none come round. And so it stays just on the edge of vision, a small unfocused blur, a standing chill that slows each impulse down to indecision. Most things will never happen. This one will.
- Stewart: The box contains us. The box contains everything. And inside the box there's another box, ad infinitum, ad nauseam... uh-oh.