No one measures a life in weeks and days. You measure life in years and by the things that happen to you.

It makes me think of Lazarus. He must have had those shadows after his miracle. You don't spend time in the tomb without it changing you, and everyone who was waiting for you to come out.

He felt it too, the air between us, the invisible lines that something or someone had drawn to connect us. That's the way I remember it.

It's as if once you hit high school, you're programmed, like a robot, to be an asshole to your parents.

When the remembering was done, the forgetting could begin.

When the reader and one narrator know something the other narrator does not, the opportunities for suspense and plot development and the shifting of reader sympathies get really interesting.

I wonder how you're supposed to know the exact moment when there's no more hope.