His mind isn’t clear. It races and throbs like the worst kind of fever, and he is unaware of even thinking. It’s more some kind of wild, dying instinct, a terror of what’s to come, a terror of what’s happened.
A terror of his death.
The terror of it, the sheer awful terror that never seemed to stop. Fear was bearable when you could see an end to it, but there was no end in sight out in those freezing waves, those pitiless fists of the ocean that cared nothing for you, that tipped you over and down in a kind of callous blindness, filling your lungs, smashing you against rocks –
When they were together like that, they had been their own private universe, bounded just by themselves, a population of two. They were the world, and the world was them.
A book, he thinks at one point, rubbing his eyes, tired from so much focused reaing. It’s a world all on its own, too. A satyr playing panpipes, far more innocent-looking than what it got up to in the story. A world made of words, Seth thinks, where you live for a while.
„People see stories everywhere,“ Regine says. „That’s what my father used to say. We take random events and we put them together in a pattern so we can comfort ourselves with a story, no matter how much it obviously isn’t true.“ She glances back at Seth. „We have to lie to ourselves to live. Otherwise, we’d go crazy.“