We're killers, all of us: We kill our lives, our past selves, the things that mattered. We bury them under slogans and excuses.

That’s what you do for family. Anything.

people themselves are full of tunnels: winding, dark spaces and caverns; impossible to know all the places inside of them. Impossible even to imagine.

In a world without love, this is what people are to each other: values, benefits, and liabilities, numbers and data. We weigh, we quantify, we measure, and the soul is ground to dust.

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

anything, anything is possible, if you can just see the sky.

For a moment, my heart aches for him. I should never have asked him to join me here; I should never have asked him to cross.