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.

People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn't. It continues and is ever-changing.

I've no use for talking, would just as soon store paper clips in my mouth.

The architecture of my sister's thinking, now phantom. I fall down stairs that are nothing but air.

Grief and love are conjoined, you don't get one without the other. All I can do is love her, and love the world, emulate her by living with daring and spirit and joy.

How will I survive this missing? How do others do it? People die all the time. Every day. Every hour. There are families all over the world staring at beds that are no longer slept in, shoes that are no longer worn. Families that no longer have to buy a particular cereal, a kind of shampoo. There are people everywhere standing in line at the movies, buying curtains, walking dogs, while inside, their hearts are ripping to shreds. For years. For their whole lives. I don't believe time heals. I don't want it to. If I heal, doesn't that mean I've accepted the world without her?

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