... just because [butterflies'] lives were short didn't mean they were tragic... See, they have a beautiful life.

Alice: I miss myself. John: I miss you too, Ali, so much.

But will I always love her? Does my love for her reside in my head or my heart? The scientist in her believed that emotion resulted from complex limbic brain circuitry that was for her, at this very moment, trapped in the trenches of a battle in which there would be no survivors. The mother in her believed that the love she hadd for her daughter was safe from the mayhem in her mind, because it lived in her heart.

At some point, there would simply be no point.

But I am not what I say or what I do or what I remember. I am fundamentally more than that.

I decide I'm not dead because I can hear the sound of the rain hitting the roof of the car. I'm alive because I'm listening to the rain, and the rain becomes the hand of God strumming his fingers on the roof, deciding what to do.

Everything she did and love, everything she was, required language.