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by M.T. Anderson

The thing I hate about space is that you can feel how old and empty it is.

You need the noise of your friends, in space.

Maybe part of it was the loneliness of the craters,

I thought she and I should have a little secret way of collision. But usually we sailed right past each other.

I just wanted them all to shut up somehow, I mean nicely, because suddenly I realized that we didn’t really sound too smart.

“There are times you just want to sink through the floor,” she said, “but then you realize there’s no air out there.”

“Yeah. You know, I think death is shallower now. It used to be a hole you fell into and kept falling. Now it’s just a blank.”

“It makes good times even better when you know they’re going to end.

If something’s an acquired taste, like, how do you start to acquire it?

The only thing worse than the thought it may all come tumbling down is the thought that we may go on like this forever.

It felt good. Really good, just to scream finally. I felt like I was singing a hit single. But in Hell.

I could still smell the hospital in my nose. It wasn’t anything around me. It was her. I stopped breathing, but the smell was still there. I held my breath.

you’ve stayed long enough so that you’re a good person and you’re allowed to leave.

If you don’t look right at them, they can look just like an empty shell.

I didn’t think she should joke about that, because you just don’t joke about your life.

It was like I kept buying these things to be cool, but cool was always flying just ahead of me, and I could never exactly catch up to it. I felt like I’d been running toward it for a long time.

I had thought it would feel like a tragedy, but it didn’t feel like anything at all.

When you wake up, I want you to remember yourself.