That no matter what i did, I would always be missing something else. And the only way to live, the only way to be happy, was to make sure the things I didn't miss meant more to me than the things I missed.

It’s good to share a life—and it’s good to share minutes and hours, too, Danny thinks. With a wife. With a husband. With a boyfriend, girlfriend, best friend. With a fling. With a brother.

How much of my body is really me? My face is me, for sure. Anyone who looked at my face would know it was me.Even with my hair wet and drawn back it's me. But after that? If I showed myself a picture of myself from the shoulders down, would I be sure it was me? Could I identify myself that way? I close my eyes and ask myself what my feet look like. I only kind of know. Same with my hands. I have no idea what my back looks like.I let it define me, but I can't even define it.

If you stare at the center of the universe, there is coldness there. A blankness. Ultimately, the universe doesn't care about us. Time doesn't care about us. That's why we have to care about each other.

The secret to living long is to have something to live for.

People say that time slips through our fingers like sand. What they don't acknowledge is that some of the sand sticks to the skin. These are memories that will remain, memories of the time when there was still time left.

We'd said we'd keep in touch. But touch is not something you can keep; as soon as it's gone, it's gone. We should have said we'd keep in words, because they are all we can string between us--words on a telephone line, words appearing on a screen.

There is the sudden. There is the eventual. And in between, there is the living.