And I will forget her, yes. That which came together will fall apart slowly, but she will forgive my forgetting, just as I forgive her for forgetting me and the Colonel and nothing but herself and her mom in those last moments as she spent as a person.

Her library filled her bookshelves and then overflowed into waist-high stacks of books everywhere, piled haphazardly against the walls. If just one of them moved... the domino effect could engulf the three of us in an asphyxiating mass of literature.

Stop thinking about the landing, because it's all about falling.

I'm a good person but a shitty writer. You're a shitty person but a good writer. We'd make a good team.

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

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

The Red Wheelbarrow" by William Carlos Williams. So much depends upom a red wheel barrow glazed with rain water beside the white chickens.