We were alive. I remember it that way. We were still alive, and we couldn't see how close we were to the end.
Most people, in the end, really are all on their own.
Sometimes a perfect memory can be ruined if put to words.
The story you choose to tell isn't always the story you believe.
[C]ouches and chairs covered in scratches aim away from one another, making it possible for a dozen people to sit in this room at once and not have to talk to one other person, which is a miracle in furniture arrangement.
There's something ugly about a pretty boy who knows he's pretty and assumes everyone else know it too.