“When people die,” I said, “and you’ll be able to verify this for yourself—most of ’em move on. A few of ’em stick around. But the ones who stick around are usually messed-up. Murders and suicides, or people with unfinished business. As for accidents and illness—at the very worst, they leave a little residue. A repeater. A psychic impression of the final moments, like a moving snapshot. I think the spirits of those repeaters, they’re fine. They go wherever it is people…go. When they die.”

“I have my welcome mat turned around backwards so when people leave they think they’re going to a better place.”

“But one thing that I was learning about what happened when you stuck around—it usually seemed that other people were willing to stick by you as well.”

“People die all around us all the time. Drop like flies. Overdose. Aids. Sometimes they kill themselves. People come. They go. Dying is the same as rehab or moving back to Missouri. It just means I won't be seeing them again”

“Most people, when they move, well they just move depending on whatever's around them. At this very moment, as I am writing, Constitution the cat is going by with her tummy dragging close to the floor. This cat has absolutely nothing constructive to do in life and still she is heading toward something, probably an armchair.”

“Only one chance one bullet in the gun. This is my life and I only got one, yeah. The safety’s off and I put on her. Oh stick ‘em up, stick ‘em up. Ready to shoot.”