I run after her, not really giving chase. I’m running because I can, because I must.
Because I want to see how far I can go before I have to stop.

But we can't go back. We can only go forward.

It isn't the bloody weather!"
I've shocked them into silence. I should stop. Apologize for my outburst. Make amends. Blame the climate. But I cannot. Something in me has given way and it cannot be put back again. "Did you know that he had returned to the laudanum? That he couldn't give it up? That our good intentions were not nearly so powerful as his will to die?... No, Thomas. Is this the life you want for me? To be like you? To wear blinders and talk of nothing that matters and drink weak tea with other people who would do anything to hide the truth, especially from themselves?

I don't think you should die until you're ready. Until you've wrung out every last bit of living you can.

You can never know about about your own destiny: are the people you meet there to play a part on your oun destiny, or do you exist just to play a role in theirs?

Who but the mad would choose to keep on living? In the end, aren't we all just a little crazy?