I wanted to, you know, get my story out in the world, which, it turns out, is a very misguided notion.

I tried to tell myself that it could be worse, that the world was not a wish-granting factory, that I was living with cancer not dying of it, that I mustn't let it kill me before it kills me.

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

Love is keeping the promise anyway.

We think that we are invincible because we are.

...It sounded like a dragon breathing in time with me, like I had this pet dragon who was cuddled up next to me and cared enough about me to time his breaths to mine.

I don't really want to be the costar of anyone's life.