“Our tongues can’t compete with the rapid thinking of our brains, our words come out slow and slurred. The pen is our haven. There is a lot of fear buried into that little pen. It holds all of our agony, our torment, our blood and our heaven.”

“We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the love…embodying our stories page after page. In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world.”

“We who hold the pen...and like bricks we use our words...how stupid of us...how naive...to even think for a second...that the pen was ever mightier than the sword.”

“Sure. But if an undead creature or whatever comes out to eat our brains or suck out our blood, don't blame me.”

“Most rats read. Our frustration is, we cannot hold a pen to write.”

“In those days, we imagined ourselves as being kept in some kind of holding pen, waiting to be released into our lives. And when the moment came, our lives -- and time itself -- would speed up. How were we to know that our lives had in any case begun, that some advantage had already been gained, some damage already inflicted? Also, that our release would only be into a larger holding pen, whose boundaries would be at first undiscernible.”