I hate both of my parents right now: for sitting quietly in our house, while out in the darkness my heart was beating away all of the seconds of my life, ticking them off one by one until my time was up; for letting the thread between us stretch so far and so thin that the moment it was severed for good they didn't even feel it.

Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.

Something aches at the very core of me, something ancient and deep and stronger than words: the filament that joins each of us to the root of existence, that ancient thing unfurling and resisting and grappling, desperately, for a foothold, a way to stay here, breathe, keep going.

I'd rather die on my own terms than live on theirs. I'd rather die loving Alex than live without him.

people do terrible things, sometimes, for the best reasons.

It strikes me how strange people are. You can see them every day - you can think you know them - and then you fшnd out you hardly know them at all.

Sometimes I'm afraid to go to sleep because of what I'm leaving behind.