“Maybe it's wrong when we remember breakthroughs to our own being as something that occurs in discrete, extraordinary moments. Maybe falling in love, the piercing knowledge that we ourselves will someday die, and the love of snow are in reality not some sudden events; maybe they were always present. Maybe they never completely vanish, either.”

“Maybe, there's a moment growing up when something peels back... Maybe, maybe, we look for secrets because we can't believe our mind.”

“Maybe, he thinks, as he’s riding on through the snow, maybe this is why she’s leaving. Maybeshe fell in love with me when we were kids. And now: and now: and now: we’re not kids anymore.”

“Maybe it is desperation. Maybe we can't let things fall apart without trying. We can't let go of the people we love.”

“Maybe there is something when it all ends. Maybe there is memory, memory of the person you loved, when you lived. Maybe this is the white-light-tunnel deal, and I'm pressing toward it, and it's pressing back, until we become the same thing.”

“We cry in our own rooms, remembering a man who will never be here again.The house creaks. Maybe it feels the weight of our grief, maybe the floorboards are buckling because the burden is too heavy.”