“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?”

“Many times when I read a book, I want to savor each word, each phrase, each page, loving the prose so much, I don’t want it to end. Other times the story pulls me in, and I can hardly read fast enough, the details flying by, some of them lost because all that matters is making sure the character is all right when it’s over.”

“Looking at these pictures,I wonder,did that part of methat flourished around him,like prized perennialsunder a tender gardener's care,die along with him?”

“Life is so freaking hard. How do people do it? How do people get up every day and deal with the shit? It really makes you understand why there are so many messed-up people in the world. I mean, it's tough, trying to deal with demands coming at you from all sides.”

“Today there's no one here, so I find a rock and open my notebookfilled with letters to Lucca,reading them,noticing how the lettersdecreased in frequencyover the past couple of months.When i started,shortly after he died,I wrote them every day.I hurt so bad, I wanted to scream,but I couldn't,so my words on the pagebecame a diary of the pain.”

“When he opens the door, I step in and an army of memories comes at me from all sides.”

“Oftentimeswhen I read a book,I want to savoreach word,each phrase,each page,loving the proseso much,I don't want itto end.Other timesthe story pulls me in,and I can hardlyread fast enough,the details flying by,some of them lostbecause all that mattersis making surethe characteris all rightwhen it's over.”