So how’s it going?” “Okay. Glad to be home, I guess. Gus told me you were in the ICU?” “Yeah,” I said. “Sucks,” he said. “I’m a lot better now,” I said. “I’m going to Amsterdam tomorrow with Gus.” “I know. I’m pretty well up-to-date on your life, because Gus never. Talks. About. Anything. Else.

I don't think you can ever fill the empty space with the thing you lost.

What you must understand about me is that I’m a deeply unhappy person.

Remember that time in the minivan, twenty minutes ago, when we didn't die?

She raised one leg and gave me all her weight as a I dipped her. She either trusted me or wanted to fall.

Writing does not resurrect. It buries.

He lit a cigarette and handed it to me. I inhaled. Coughed. Wheezed. Gasped for breath. Coughed again. Considered vomiting. Grabbed the swinging bench, head spinning, and threw the cigarette to the ground and stomped on it, convinced my Great Perhaps did not involve cigarettes.