Of course I tensed up when he touched me. To be with him was to hurt him-inevitably. And that's what I'd felt as he reached for me: I'd felt as though I were committing an act of violence against him, because I was.

I kept it for myself like a keepsake, as if sharing the memory might lead to its dissipation.

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

I love being in cities with lots of other people, because I'm reminded that there are billions of people like me, and we are each stuck inside of our minds, feverishly trying to crawl out to make connections with other people.

You're funny, and you're smart, and you may show up late, but you always show up eventually.

Maybe life is not about accomplishing some bullshit markers.

As I recall, you promised to CALL when you finished the book, not text.