You might say that death has relaxed me.

I sigh inside, so exhausted by these ugly questions, but when did a monster ever deserve its privacy?

I wish people were willing to dig a little deeper than the surface elements of a premise before tossing one story in with another.

Came to . . . see you.” “But I had to go home, remember? You were supposed to say good-bye.” “Don't know why you . . . say good-bye. I say . . . hello.” Her lip quivers between reactions, but she ends up with a reluctant smile. “God you're a cheeseball. But seriously, R—

...thinking all this maximalism would somehow generate happiness?

Everything you see, you might be seeing for the last time.

I wince at her use of the word "human." I've never liked that differentiation. She is living and I'm dead, but we're both human. Call me an idealist.