He says one word, nodding into the daylight. "Look." It's an astounding word. It's a gift.

Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't our fear of morality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.

I wanted to be rid of him," he says. He raises my chin with his thumb. "But not if it meant being rid of you. I climbed in beside you, and you put your head in my lap. You can't think I would have left you like that." "Look what it got you," I say. "Tea in bed and you here in front of me," he says. "It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.

Ah, love. That’s what the world has lost. There’s no more love, only the illusion of it.

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.

In another time, in another place, I wonder who they might have been.

I was born into a world that was already dying; I belong to it.