[...] I remember the way he dropped to sleep in my arms, every single time we shared a bed, as though he had never had insomnia in his life. I remember how we used to laugh until our bodies convulsed, like the bad kids in the back of a classroom. I remember the way he could recite entire pages of Fitzgerald, and how the night we drove back from his cabin to Los Angeles, still sweaty and gritty under our regular street clothes, the hot wind blowing in my already wild hair, I felt alive to every molecule of air, the heights and depths of every sensation I had ever known. [...]