We are all psychics, just extraordinarily inaccurate ones.
We’re shape-shifters who stumbled on a shape they liked, then promptly forgot how to shift.
Think of us as creatures who could fly, have been fully intending on flying, in fact, bought a book about flying that we are so going to read as soon as we finish this other book someone loaned us, and as long as we don't buy any other books before then and aren't given any as gifts, we are so going to read that flying book, as soon as we have time.
Speaking of time, I'm sure I don't need to tell you this, but, we’re all time travelers. We’re all traveling on the same time-bus. Look: every clock in the world is the bus’ speedometer, and, yep: we’re still moving along at a rate of one second per second.
He has this video game where I guess instead of the music in the game you can pick mp3s you have on your Playstation and have those play as the soundtrack to the game instead.
He realized he could get the voicemails from his phone downloaded as mp3s.
All last night he killed mutant bugs and ghosts and zombies to the sound of your voice and he told me not to tell you.
I was your friend before I was his friend and I was only his friend because he was your boyfriend and I think he thinks he and I are still friends because he's lonely and he doesn't understand how the world works.
He turned his phone off as she came into the restaurant, but then he had a different thought, and while she walked over to the table he held the phone's power button down, turning it on again, as he slipped it into his pocket.
The waiter had just cleared their plates and she was halfway through a story about an always-naked roommate when his phone started ringing, one of those ringtones that imitates the kind of old-fashioned phone that probably had an actual bell inside of it. He took the phone out of his pocket. "Sorry," he said, "Sorry," and pressed a button that hung up on the call without answering.
"Are you sure you don't want to get that?" she asked.
He said: "Yep!"
In his head, he was being marched through the streets of a medieval fortress town - In Spain? In Italy? - being held aloft by cheering peasants. He was on a cross, but not nailed to it, just riding it, his legs dangling over either side. He was looking around him with the right mix of shock and humility and gratitude, and they took him to the cathedral in the center of town, and they made him the first living saint.