How are the eyes?' 'Oh, excellent,' he said. 'I mean, they're not in my head is the only problem.

He told me this while ripping through his duffel bag, throwing clothes into drawers with reckless abandon. Chip did not believe in having a sock drawer or a T-shirt drawer. He believed that all drawers were created equal and filled each with whatever fit. My mother would have died.

Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.

And yet still I worried. I like being a person. I wanted to keep at it. Worry is yet another side effect of dying.

There is always the risk: something is good and good and good and good, then all at once it gets awkward.

it is the nature of stars to cross

It hurts because it mattered.