There is only one thing I fear now-love. For I have seen it and I have felt it and I know that it is love, not death, that undoes us.

For mad I may be, but I will never be convenient.

Voice is not just the sound that comes from your throat, but the feelings that come from your words.

She's got a big belt around her hips. It has a shiny buckle with PRADA on it, which is Italian for insecure.

They leave things behind sometimes, the guests. A bottle of scent. A crumpled handkerchief. A pearl button that fell off a dress and rolled under a bed. And sometimes they leave other sorts of things. Things you can't see. A sigh trapped in a corner. Memories tangled in the curtains. A sob fluttering against the windowpane like a bird that flew in and can't get back out. I can feel these things. They dart and crouch and whisper.

You are a ghost, Andi," she says. "Almost gone." I look at her. I want to say something but I can't get the words out. She squeezes my hands. "Come back to us," she says. And she's gone.

It's only the body that's gone. Only the body. There's a part that doesn't go in the ground, a part that stays inside you forever.