“That is, so to speak, my own story. If I had a wish, I would wish that the sounds of the turning pages of my story after this encounter would resound like the sound of footsteps.”

“The only sound I'll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps”

“Music is what feelings sound like out loud. I sing songs that speak from my heart. They tell my story, how I feel.”

“Words are too easy,” he says. He opens his book. “What looks like truth and sounds like truth might be nothing but a dream, nothing but a story I wish had happened.”

“Every story needs a voice to tell it though, or it goes unheard. So I have to try. I still have enough faith left in language to believe that if I place enough words next to each other on the page, they will start to speak with sounds of their own.”

“He flipped the dail, and I crossed my arms over my chest as some vaguely European-sounding band sang about how video had killed the radio star. I wished someone would kill this radio.”

“I was so scared about being discovered, but nobody came. Nobody heard. In my own ears, though, my sobs sounded primal and scary, like something I would have turned off if I'd been able to.”