When you reach the stars, boy, yes, and live there forever, all the fears will go, and Death himself will die.

Death loves death, not life. Dying people love to know that others die with them; it is a comfort to learn you are not alone in the kiln, in the grave.

That's the good part of dying; when you've nothing to lose, you run any risk you want.

The dust was antique spice, burnt maple leaves, a prickling blue that teemed and sifted to earth. Swarming its own shadows, the dust filtered over the tents.