But a lot of times, people die how they live. And so last words tell me a lot about who people were, and why they became the sort of people biographies get written about.

We do an epically bad job of acknowledging one another's work and checking our sources.

She has enough black eyeliner on to outline a corpse, and her skin's so pale she looks like she's just broken dawn.

There is a part of her greater than the sum of her knowable parts. And that part has to go somewhere, because it cannot be destroyed.

Do you guys remember that time when we were all definitely going to die and then Ben grabbed the steering wheel and dodged a ginormous freaking cow and spun the car like the teacups at Disney World and we didn't die?

My thoughts are stars I cannot fathom into constellations.

Reading it the night before, I'd wondered if it would be like that for me-if in one moment, I would finally understand her, know her, and understand the role I'd played in her dying. But I wasn't convinced enlightenment struck like lightining.