She may have looked normal on the outside, but once you'd seen her handwriting you knew she was deliciously complicated inside.

You never get over it, but you get to where it doesn't bother you so much.

College wasn't like the real world. In the real world people dropped names based on their renown. In college, people dropped names based on their obscurity.

In the end, it wasn't death that surprised her but the stubbornness of life.

I spend most of every day writing. I like to write every day if I can. I don't start extremely early.

She lost much of her appetite. At night, an invisible hand kept shaking her awake every few hours. Grief was physiological, a disturbance of the blood. Sometimes a whole minute would pass in nameless dread - the bedside clock ticking, the blue moonlight coating the window like glue - before she`d remember the brutal fact that had caused it.

Now all the mute objects of my life seem to tell my story, to stretch back in time, if I look closely enough.