Perhaps this was how the sparrows did it too; perhaps they were looking so hard at the peaks and tips of the new rooftops coated with dew, and the vast new horizon, that they only forgot that they did not know how to fly until they were already in midair.

It's the time of the night I like best, when most people are asleep and it feels like the world belongs completely to my friends and me, as though nothing exists apart from out little circle: everywhere else is darkness and quiet.

Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge.

Things change after you die, though, I guess because dying is the loneliest thing you can do.

The memories seem like snapshots from someone else’s life.

It occurs to me that for a long time she has been doing her own version of resisting.

We should be protected from the people who will leave us in the end, from all the people who will disappear or forget us.