In the end, I cared about him so much that I just thought he deserved someone who loved him more than I did.

My uncle Max was a mountain, a shooting star, a big bear of a man, a piggyback ride waiting to happen, his pockets full of candy and, later money, or whatever the particular currency of our ages happened to be. He was rock concerts, baseball games, he was yes when my parents were no, he was a consolation for every disappointment.

Today something interesting happened. I died.

The woman I was seems hopelessly naive. I envy her.

There's nothing particularly dark in my past... I live in the light. My disposition is basically happy. I have a good life.

The Universe doesn't like secrets. It conspires to reveal the truth, to lead you to it.

It's strange how memory gets twisted and pulled like taffy in its retelling, how a single event can mean something different to everyone present.