Half-drunk on well-creamed gas station coffee and the exhilarating loneliness of a freeway in nighttime.

He let his mind wander. It went to a predictable place, and he missed her

I do not say goodbye. I believe that's one of the bullshitiest words ever invented. It's not like you're given the choice to say bad-bye, or awful-bye, or couldn't-care-less-about-you-bye. Everytime you leave, it's supposed to be a good one.

I’ve stopped thinking about it. I don’t have time to have a girlfriend. I have like a full-time job Learning How to Be Blind.

There's no way of knowing that your last good day is Your Last Good Day. At the time, it is just another good day.

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

What is an "instant" death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous.