The atlas o' clouds

I watched clouds awobbly from the floor o' that kayak. Souls cross ages like clouds cross skies, an' tho' a cloud's shape nor hue nor size don't stay the same, it's still a cloud an' so is a soul. Who can say where the cloud's blowed from or who the soul'll be 'morrow? Only Sonmi the east an' the west an' the compass an' the atlas, yay, only the atlas o' clouds.
Duophysite saw my eyes was open an' pointed me Big Isle, purple in the sou'eastly blue, an' Mauna Kea hidin' its head like a shy bride.
Yay, my Hole World an' hole life was shrinked 'nuff to fit in the O o' my finger'n'thumb.

Zachry my old pa was a wyrd buggah, I won't naysay it now he's died. Oh, most o' Pa's yarnin's was jus' musey duck fartin' an' in his loonsome old age he even b'liefed Meronym the Prescient was his presh b'loved Sonmi, yay, he 'sisted it, he said he knowed it all by birthmarks an' comets'n'all.
Do I b'lief his yarn 'bout the Kona an' his fleein' from Big I? Most yarnin's got a bit o' true, some yarnin's got some true, an' a few yarnin's got a lot o' true. The stuff 'bout Meronym the Prescient was mostly true, I reck'n. See, after Pa died my sis'n'me sivvied his gear, an' I finded his silv'ry egg what he named orison in his yarns. Like Pa yarned, if you warm the egg in your hands, a beautsome ghost-girl appears in the air an' speaks in an Old-Un tongue what no un alive und'stands nor never will, nay. It ain't Smart you can use 'cos it don't kill Kona pirates nor fill empty guts, but some dusks my kin'n'bros'll wake up the ghost-girl jus' to watch her hov'rin'n'shimm'rin'. She's beautsome, and she 'mazes the littl' uns an' her murmin's babbybie our babbits.
Sit down a beat or two.
Hold out your hands.

David Mitchell, Cloud Atlas, 2004