The inside of the door is glossy white. A total re-paint. I touch it with my fingers, but it stays the same. It's so bright it makes the room waver at the edges. Every few years we disappear.

I want the people I love to get up and speak about me, and even if you cry it'll be OK. I want you to say honest things.

The last few weeks, it was as if someone had taken his life to pieces and let him see the way it worked.

Don't think you have to be good because you're the only one left. Be as bad as you like.

. . . my bones they'll burn or bury. It'll be my death.

There's a terrible stillness. I notice a small tear in the wallpaper above her shoulder. I notice finger marks grimed on the light switch. Somewhere down in the house, a door opens and shuts. As Zoey turns to face me, I realize that life is made up of a series of moments, each one a journey to the end.

I've always wanted to be a cat. Warm and domesticated when you want to be, wild when you don't.