Love is not enough to keep any of us alive.

Someday I'll tell you all of it," I say. "I'd like that," he says. "No," I say. "I promise you won't.

Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.

Cure" is one of the most precious words in the English language. It's a short word. A clean and simple word. But it isn't so easy a thing as it sounds. There are questions like: How will this affect us in ten years? In twenty? What will it do to our children? Our children's children?

I wish I had a memory of that first violent shove, the shock of cold air, the sting of oxygen into new lungs. Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.

For males twenty-five is the fatal age. For women it's twenty. We are all dropping like flies.

I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?