I think all true stories are hopeful stories. I don't think there's any room for nihilism.

Margo always loved mysteries. And in everything that came afterward, I could never stop thinking that maybe she loved mysteries so much that she became one.

We got off at the next exit, quietly, and, switching drivers, we walked in front of the car. We met and I held him, my hands balled into tight fists around his shoulders, and he wrapped his short arms around me and squeezed tight, so that I felt the heaves of his chest as we realized over and over again that we were still alive. I realized it in waves and we held on to each other crying and I thought, 'God we must look so lame,' but it doesn't matter when you have just now realized, all the time later, that you are still alive.

By saying you don’t care if the world falls apart, in some small way you’re saying you want it to stay together, on your own terms.

I don't believe in prom,' I reminded her as she rounded a corner. I expertly angled my raisin bran to accomodate the g-forces. I'd done this before.

The urge to make art or contemplate philosophy does not go away when you are sick. Those urges just become transfigured by illness.

I wish I knew how to quit you, Tumblr.