It was all very strange, Mr. Gray thought, as he wiped the coffee canister clean with a sponge. Very, very mysterious. You were born; you lived a whole life; and at the end, you wound up in a coffee canister. "Ah, well," he said out loud quietly. "That's just the way things are. Life's a funny business." Death, he supposed, was the punch line.

That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.

I need him to know that I came for him. I need him to know that somehow, at some point in the tunnels, I began to love him.

Until, one day, she wasn’t.

Amazing how hope lives. Without air or water, with hardly anything at all to nurture it.

Somewhere in the endless spinning of eternity that one, tiny, fraction of a second where our lips met is lost forever.

For a second, I feel a sense of overwhelming grief: for how things change, for the fact that we can never go back. I'm not certain of anything anymore. I don't know what will happen--