Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.

I can't shove the dark out of my way.

Sometimes you think you know things, know things very deeply, only to realize you don't know a damn thing.

How can the word love, the word life, even fit in the mouth?

But then I think about my sister and what a shell-less turtle she was and how she wanted me to be one too. C'mon, Lennie, she used to say to me at least ten times a day. C'mon Len. And that makes me feel better, like it's her life rather than her death that is now teaching me how to be, who to be.

It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.

This is our story to tell. You’d think for all the reading I do, I would have thought about this before, but I haven’t. I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the story telling aspect of life, of my life. I always felt like I was in a story, yes, but not like I was the author of it, or like I had any say in its telling whatsoever.