Some little part of themselves for someone in the future to discover. Maybe a thought. We were here. We built this. A reminder.

It's easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or die.

You are not special. You are not a beautiful or unique snowflake. You're the same decaying organic matter as everything else.

Maybe it's just a daughter's job to piss off her mother.

The short stories tend to be a journalistic gathering of anecdotes that are put together to make something larger.

Language, she said, was just our way to explain away the wonder and glory of the world. To deconstruct. To dismiss. She said people can't deal with how beautiful the world really is. How it can't be explained and understood.

Have your adventures, make your mistakes, and choose your friends poorly -- all these make for great stories.