It's nice, this. The canal." He looks at me. "You." "I'll bet you say that to all the canals.

But what if Shakespeare― and Hamlet― were asking the wrong question? What if the real question is not whether to be, but how to be?

It feels like the city is telling secrets down here, privy only to those who think to listen.

My stomach lurched, an appetizer before the full portion of heartache I had a feeling was going to be served at some point soon.

When the sun shines, you let it shine on you

If I stay. If I live. It’s up to me. All this business about medically induced comas is just doctor talk. It’s not up to the doctors. It’s not up to the absentee angels. It’s not even up to God who, if He exists, is nowhere around right now. It’s up to me.

...no way through it but through it," I tell myself.