“….watch me rise like smoke from fire.Watch me fly above your hate.Watch me dance upon your meannesslike a ballerina with posture; grace.Watch me laugh over your hatred;watch me soar above your sea of grief.And know that I am out there somewhere… C R U S H I N G.”

“You tell me I can't fly, but then you watch me soar.”

“You moved my head so that it was lying in your lap. "Keep your eyes open," you said. "Stay with me."I tried. It felt like I was using every muscle in my face. But I did it. I saw you from upside down, your lips above my eyes and your eyes above my lips. "Talk to me," you said. My throat felt like it was closing up, as if my skin had swollen, making my throat a lump of solid flesh. I gripped your hand. "Keep watching me, then," you said. "Keep listening.”

“I feel there's a funny little hole in me that wasn't there before, like a splinter in your finger, but this is somewhere above my stomach.”

“Watch it, your sanity. Watch the line. What I don’t say is that the line is hardly there. It’s as blurry and fluid as the slope of the shore, from beach to the shallows to water over your head to the open sea. And I’m not really supposed to believe in that spectrum…..But we’re all there on the slope. I think the difference is whether you’ve maneuvered yourself into a position where your head’s above the sea.”

“Sie haben ja sooo recht, Frau Zappka...Ich höre in diesem Haus auch a-l-l-e-s. Bloß von Ihnen and Ihrem Mann höre ich nichts. G-a-r n-i-c-h-t-s. Schönen Tag noch.”