“I know a rock in a highland's ravine,On which only eagles might ever be seen,But a black wooden cross o'er a precipice reigns,It rots and it ages from tempests and rains.And many years have gone without any hints,From times when it was seen from faraway hills.And its every arm is raised up to the sky,As if catching clouds or going to fly.Oh, if I were able to rise there and stay,Then how I'd cry there and how I'd pray;And then I would throw off real life's chainsAnd live as a brother of tempests and rains!”

“I wished the dream were real, and this reality a dream. But that wasn't the case. And that was why, whenever I woke up, I'd be crying. It wasn't because I was sad. When you return from a happy dream to sad reality, there's a chasm you have to step across, and you can't cross it without shedding tears. It doesn't matter how many times you do it.”

“A girl my age had been murdered in these woods and I'd seen her last terrified moments, watched her bleed to death in this forest. A life like mine had ended here, and it didn't matter how many times I'd seen deaths in movies, it wasn't the same, and I wasn't ever going to forget it.”

“It felt like I'd been living underground, and for a moment, I'd been given this glimpse of the sky. Once you've seen that, how can you go back where you came from?”

“I wonder how many times in my life I would have been able to prevent something, change something, do something different, if only I'd listened to someone.”

“How much of my fever-induced dream was real? I felt safe assuming that my time as a bee was fiction, as well as a few mythological animals that I swear I'd seen. Then I'd lived on the sun with aliens.”