Here," she said. "This is for you." "I didn't really get you anything," I sputtered. "I mean, I didn't know that you were going to be here, and--" "Don't worry. It's your embarrassment at not having the thought that counts.

I was attempting to write the story of my life. It wasn't so much about plot. It was much more about character.

I am made for running. Because when you run, you could be anyone. You hone yourself into a body, nothing more or less than a body. You respond as a body, to the body. If you are racing to win, you have no thoughts but the body's thoughts, no goals but the body's goals. You obliterate yourself in the name of speed. You negate yourself in order to make it past the finish line.

This isn't even something I've feared, because I never knew it was a possibility.

But whether or not you are here, you are here—because these words are for you, and they wouldn't exist if you weren't here in some way.

If you start the day reading the obituaries, you live your day a little differently.

I don’t like it when you use my shampoo, because then your hair smells like me, not you.