The whole thing was the precise opposite of what I figured it would be: slow and patient and quiet and neither particularly painful nor particularly ecstatic

Writing does not resurrect. It buries.

We can't love our neighbors till we know how crooked their hearts are.

The pleasure of remembering had been taken from me, because there was no longer anyone to remember with. It felt like losing your co-rememberer meant losing the memory itself, as if the things we'd done were less real and important than they had been hours before.

You realize that trying to keep your distance from me will not lessen my affection for you. All efforts to save me from you will fail.

If you don't live a life in service of a greater good, you've gotta at least die a death in service of a greater good, you know? And I fear that I won't get either a life or a death that means anything.

This was what I liked most about my friends: just sitting around & telling stories.