Please Mia," he implores. "Don't make me write a song.

Sleep would be so welcome. A warm blanket of black to erase everything else. Sleep without dreams.

You were so busy trying to be my savior that you left me all alone.

Needle and thread flesh and bone Spit and sinew, heartbreak is home. Your suture lines, they sparkle like diamonds Bright stars to light my confinement "Stitch.

The truth and its opposite are flip sides of the same coin.

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.

I like French fries," I say. I like French fries? I sound like a slow child in a made-for-TV movie.