“BoxesWe built walls of cardboardthinking they would keep us safe.And they did.Until the flamescame.”

“We sit in silence, all the unanswered and unasked questions thicker than the wall of glass between us.”

“It was then that i understood what i had to do. i had to find a way to warn you.They have built a house of steel, and they are waiting.”

“Where we goin’?” Wade whispers to me as we approach the white picket fence that surrounds the row of wooden crosses.For all I know my grandmother could be planning to shoot us and bury us with the rest of the family, but I don’t think it would help to share this notion with Wade”

“This is the house where they found Jack dead.This is the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the wall, splattered in red,standing next to the floor,in the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the door leading into the tomb.This is the wall splattered in red,standing next to the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the clock hanging over the door.This is the wall splattered in redstanding next to the floorin the roomin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the bird coming out of the clockhanging over the doorin the wallby the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the song in the heart of the birdcoming out of the clockhanging over the doorin the wallby the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.These are the wordsto the song of the birdcoming out of the clockhanging over the doorin the wallby the floorin the roomof the housewhere they found Jack dead.This is the man who sits in the cell.Eleven years have come and gone.Jack is dead, but he lives on.He waits in silence, but he still can hear.The ancient song echoes in his ears.The sound of time with its tick tick TOCK!The song of the bird coming out of the clock,hanging over a door leading into a tomb,where there stand four walls splattered all in red,and a floor where a good man fell and bled,in the room of the house where they found Jack dead.These are the words of the cuckoo’s song,as he asks us who will right these wrongs.The cuckoo sings and the cuckoo wails,for the dead who cannot tell their tales.Rage all you want, but at close of day,justice is mine, and I will repay.”

“I'm Writing my stoy. But i'm also plotting my escape from this prison cell.This is my plan.I will do it with words.I will write them by day.I will write them by night.I will write them on the walls,the stalls, the halls.I will write them in big bold inkon posters i hang on the concrete blocks.I will write them on little pieces of paperI stuff on the mattress and the pillow.I will write them with fingersbent and cramped from use.I will write them in bloodif i have to,but only my own.And i will keep writing them,again, and again, and again,until i fill this prison cell so full of words,that the bars bend and buckle and burstbecause they cannot contain themAnd then I will be free.”

“When I get to the part about Jess kissing me on the Fourth of July and taking me to her beach house,I look at my father and wonder what it is like, seeing people only through a wall of glass. Never touching them.”