...the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you. This is half the reason for the cure: It clean-sweeps; it makes the past, and all its pain, distant, like the barest impression on sparkling glass.

I need to live my life in the light of their deaths. I need to live.

Still, the vivid green of the grass-where the grass is actually managing to assert itself through the dirt-seems out of place. This seems like a place where the sun should never shine: a place on the edge, at the limit, a place completely removed from time and happiness and life.

That is the strangest thing about the world: how it looks so different from every point of view.

We'll walk together holding hands, and kiss in broad daylight, and love each other as much as we want to, and no one will ever try to keep up apart.

I wonder whether she was sorry for leaving us behind.

And how she looked at me like I could save her from everything bad in he world. This was my secret: she was the one who saved me