S. - Ship of Theseus - Pg 284

 The cottage is made of the same weather-bleached wood as the warehouse, though it looks sturdier, its seams tight, it's angles true. The word that runs through S.'s head is intractable: it sits here atop a dead mountaintop on a lifeless island, defying wind and rain and good sense. Push all you like, it seems to say. I am going nowhere.