Any explanation or logic that explains everything so easily has a hidden trap in it. I'm speaking from experience. Somebody once said if it's something a single book can explain, it's not worth having explained. What I mean is don't leap to any conclusions.

A person's last moments are an important thing. You can't choose how you're born but you can choose how you die.

It's hard to tell the difference between sea and sky, between voyager and sea. Between reality and the workings of the heart.

It's the real world, full of gaps and inconsistencies and anticlimaxes.

Still, in the end, we all die just the same.

Reading was like an addiction; I read while I ate, on the train, in bed until late at night, in school, where I'd keep the book hidden so I could read during class. Before long I bought a small stereo and spent all my time in my room, listening to jazz records. But I had almost no desire to talk to anyone about the experience I gained through books and music. I felt happy just being me and no one else. In that sense I could be called a stack-up loner.

She gave me this look – she might have been watching from a lifeboat as the ship went down. Or maybe it was the other way around.