I hope they remember the good stuff, when I was a baby, a toddler, when they still had hopes and dreams for their little girl, their miracle child. In truth they were good to me. They were only doing what they knew how to do; what they thought was best.

They didn't guarantee you'd come out a whole person.

Everyone's a liar. Everyone I've ever known.

Secrets. I can't take then with me. If I do, when I go, when I arrive at my final destination, I'll be . . . impure.

How does he do it? Live. With the fear of death every day. I don't fear death as much as I fear the thought of living.

Sometimes I felt as if there were no tomorrows, that everything, my whole life, was crammed into one long day. A continuous stretch of meaningless time. Sometimes I even wished there was no tomorrow, if this was all I had to look forward to.

It was all about hate. There should be laws. We're there laws? Can you legislate against hatred?