As I would soon learn myself, cleaning up what a parent leaves behind stirs up dust, both literal and metaphorical. It dredges up memories. You feel like you're a kid again, poking around in your parents' closet, only this time there's no chance of getting in trouble, so you don't have to be so sure that everything gets put back exactly where it was before you did your poking around. Still, you hope to find something, or maybe you fear finding something, that will completely change your conception of the parent you thought you knew.

You could pray all you want that you have a massive stroke while you're working and die, but possibly that won't happen, and you'll be in this bed, and somebody's going to have to clean you up.

I cannot stand superheroes. I do not understand any of its appeal. It has just bored me to death since I was a little kid.

I gave up on ever trying to get 'my way.' I barely knew it existed.

I think when you really love something, you notice the minutiae.

I putter. I nurse old grudges. I fold origami while nursing old grudges. I think about the past. I wonder if there’s any grudges I should start.

I think maybe to survive, I mean to just get through the day - I'm not saying that everything is hilariously funny.