I don't know what it is about death that makes it so hard. I suppose it's the one-sided communication; the fact that we never get to ask our loved one if she suffered, if she is happy wherever she is now...if she is somewhere. It's the question mark that comes with death that we can't face, not the period.

Seeing her sitting there unresponsive makes me realize that silence has a sound.

I know how difficult it can be when the image you've had of something doesn't match its reality; when the friend beside you turns into a monster.

Everyone has a book inside of them - but it doesn't do any good until you pry it out.

No child really chooses his religion; it is just the luck of the draw which blanket of beliefs you are wrapped in.

I have always envied people who believe strongly in religion, people who could face a tragedy by praying and know that it would be all right. As unscientific as it seems, well, it would be nice to lay the responsibilities and pain on someone else's larger shoulders.

I wish I could tell him I understand: the higher you raise your hopes, the farther you have to fall.