“Or he was simply pretending—like many drinkers, he liked to think each new day drew a line under the day before.”

“We just have to live each new day as if it’s a precious gift. When I wake up in the morning I like to think that this day will be better than any day I’ve ever lived.”

“How many days was I like that? Pretending to listen, but not hearing a word? Pretending to care when I hated it all? Pretending to live when I was dying inside?”

“Each day is a lifetime. In the morning we are born. The day lies before us: vast and bright and new.”

“I had never felt like that before, as if there were a sort of curse, a merciless force in the light that shone on a world where life is borken and lost, where each new day takes something from the day that precedes it, where suffering is inmovable...”

“I knew my words were harsh, as I enunciated each syllable slowly, but I felt like I had to be clear with him. We’d crossed too many lines that day, and it needed to stop.”