...all of our laments could not add a single second to her life, not one additional beat of the heart, nor a breath.

He is coming, and I am here.

Now I wonder if it means that the future is a place, or like a place, that I could go to; that is go to in some way other than just getting older.

I sleep all day. Noises flit around the house- garbage truck in the alley, rain, tree rapping against the bedroom window. I sleep. I inhabit sleep firmly, willing it, wielding it, pushing away dreams, refusing, refusing. Sleep is my lover now, my forgetting, my opiate, my oblivion. [...] It is afternoon, it is night, it is morning. Everything is reduced to this bed, this endless slumber that makes the days into one day, makes time stop, stretches and compacts time until it is meaningless.

Is it sad to fancy David Tennant when you're dead?

Henry loves my hair almost as though it is a creature unto itself, as though it has a soul to call its own, as though it could love him back.

‎I never wanted to have anything in my life that I couldn't stand losing. But it's too late for that.