I was not religious, but I liked rituals. I liked the idea of connecting an action with remembering.

...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.

Given the final futility of our struggle, is the fleeting jolt of meaning that art gives us valuable? Or is the only value in passing the time as comfortable as possible? What should a story seek to emulate, Augustus? A ringing alarm? A call to arms? A morphine drip? Of course, like all interrogation of the universe, this line of inquiry inevitably reduces us to asking what it means to be human and whether—to borrow a phrase from the angst-encumbered sixteeen-year-olds you no doubt revile—there is a point to it all.

This is what I love about novels - both reading them and writing them. They jump into the abyss to be with you where you are.

he is both the source of my happiness and the one i want to share it with. i have to believe that’s a sign.

It's fine," I repeated. And whatever. It was fine. It had to be.

But as for me: I must ask the wounded man where he is hurt, because I cannot become the wounded man. The only wounded man I can be is me.