Humans are made from nuclear ash of dead stars

We make patterns, we share moments.

The light is heart-breaking.

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

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.

And in bed, deep inside the building, are all the headaches that won't go away. The failed kidneys, the rashes, the ragged-edged moles, the lumps on the breast, the coughs that have turned nasty. In the Marie Curie Ward on the fourth floor are the kids with cancer. Their bodies secretly and slowly being consumed. And then there's the mortuary, where the dead lie in refrigerated drawers with name tags on their feet.

It was strange how words meant something when they came out of your mouth. Inside your head they were safe and silent, but once they were outside, people grabbed hold of them.