You have to do something bad to do something good.

As a writer, putting words on the page is how I pay attention.

Or maybe what he fears is just the opposite: that nobody is looking; that his death, like his life, is without purpose; that there is neither greater good nor evil--only people living and dying because their bodies function and then do not; that the universe is a rip.

It took me as long as I had known him to get rid of all of his words. Like turning an hourglass over.

Everything is the way it is because everything was the way it was

But I still couldn't figure out what it all meant. The more I found out, the less I understood.

I wondered, for the first time in my life, if life was worth all the work it took to live. What exactly made it worth it?