"The view of the human world I could see with my eyes had flattened, like a scene printed on a heavy theater curtain. And then the curtain parted just a fraction. Midtown Atlanta, the old buildings, the natural world, the flowers and messages, were inconsequential and felt unreal. They were two dimensional, like looking at a projection. What was real was what I could see through that split in the curtain and what I saw was a holy thing."
“Instead of shooting through the front windshield to crush my skull against that house-sized hunk of metal, I crawled out of that car with only a burn on my neck from the seatbelt. I remember leaving Frank's Little Hut in Montrose as I'd done a dozen unbelted nights before. I remember pulling that seatbelt around me; doing it and wondering why at the same time. Guided. Always.”