As I've grown older, I've grown more convinced there's nothing that shouldn't be talked about. If we think we're protecting each other, we're not.

I could tell that Mom was dreaming, but I didn't want to know what she was dreaming about, because I had enough of my own nightmares, and if she had been dreaming something happy, I would have been angry at her for dreaming something happy.

As long as I am thinking, I am alive.

Sometimes one simply wants to disappear.

What's so horrible about being dead forever, and not feeling anything, and not even dreaming? What's so great about feeling and dreaming?

I was of the opinion that the past is past, and like all that is not now it should remain buried along the side of our memories.

Everybody knows the competing identities of people who have kids.