“Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave. ”

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

“It's the sound of my breathing that gets me, pouring down into my lungs and then tripping back up my throat.”

“The flyscreen door is torn at the edges. Fraying. I open it and knock on the wood. The sound rhymes with my heartbeat.”

“White light lowered itself into a boxing ring and a crowd stood and murmured--that magical sound of many people talking all at once. How could every person there have so much to say at the same time?”

“I told her I loved the howling sound of her harmonica. That seemed to be the limit of my courage that night, and even those spoken words had to struggle their way out of my mouth. It's all very well for words to build bridges, but sometimes I think it's a matter of knowing when to do it. Knowing when the time's right.”

“***AN OBSERVATION***A pair of train guards.A pair of grave diggers.When it came down to it, one of them called the shots.The other did what he was told.The question is, what if the 'other' is a lot more than one?”