Things That Don't Matter When You've Lived the Same Day Six Times and Died on at Least Two of Them: Lunch meats and their relative coolness.
Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep because of what I'm leaving behind.
Grief is like sinking, like being buried.
The memories seem like snapshots from someone else’s life.
Maybe next time, but probably not.
Snapshots, moments, mere seconds: as fragile and beautiful and hopeless as a single butterfly, flapping on against a gathering wind.