Peter Swanson

Everyone dies. What difference does it make if a few bad apples get pushed along a little sooner than God intended? And your wife, for example, seems like the kind worth killing.”

If Michelle and he had an affair, they would get found out. That’s what always happened.

Words had been escaping him lately. They were like cigarette smoke. He’d open his mouth and the word would billow away on the wind.

The note said they were memento mori beads, simple reminders that we are alive only a short time, and that we all have the same fate, to one day rot away.

The awful thing about loneliness, Jack thought, not for the first time, is that it isn’t always cured by other people.

A quote from Sense and Sensibility kept running through her head: “It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy—it is disposition alone.

And for those of you who say that two wrongs don’t make a right, then I suspect you’re a person who has never been wronged.

Happiness is always a temporary state.

The cold nothing that awaits all of us when we finally leave this world.