This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

Let me just unsubscribe to my own mind already, because I don't get any of it.

Grief is forever. It doesn't go away; it becomes part of you, step for step, breath for breath.

I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.

That's exactly it—I am crazy sad, and somewhere deep inside, all I want is to fly.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

For the first time in our lives, I’m somewhere she can’t find, and I don’t have the map to give her that leads to me.