The truth is, there is no line. There's only your life, how you mess it up, and who is there to save you. Or who isn't.

Soon man will count all his days, and then smaller segments of the day, and then smaller still—until the counting consumes him, and the wonder of the world he has been given is lost.

The dead sit at our tables long after they have gone.

To know you're going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time. That's better. That way you can actually be more involved in your life while you're living.

When someone is in your heart, they're never truly gone. They can come back to you, even at unlikely times.

I hope you never hear those words. Your mom. She died. They are different than other words. They are too big to fit in your ears. They belong to some strange, heavy, powerful language that pounds away at the side of your head, a wrecking ball coming at you again and again, until finally, the words crack a hole large enough to fit inside your brain. And in so doing, they split you apart.

No one gets left behind, remember?