I still think that maybe the "afterlife" is just something we made up to ease the pain of loss, to make our time in the labyrinth bearable. Maybe we are just matter, and matter gets recycled

I'm really not up for answering any questions that start with how, when, where, why or what.

You are going to live a good and long life filled with great and terrible moments that you cannot even imagine yet.

He'd fought hard, Lida told me, as if there was another way to fight.

In the ensuing silence, I have time to contemplate the word cute— how dismissive it is, how it’s the equivalent of calling someone little, how it makes a person into a baby, how the word is a neon sign burning through the dark reading, “Feel Bad About Yourself.

Colder by the hour, more dead with every breath.

Margo's beauty was a kind of sealed vessel of perfection--uncracked and uncrackable.