Only the demented would not have raised their hands in the great hall. They had exchanged fear for insanity".

In this county, we had to walk, eat, sleep and love in fear.

What can't be said can be written. Because writing is a silent act, a labor from the head to the hand.

Who can take a single step with his head?

If only the right person would have to leave, everyone else would be able to stay in the country.

I have packed myself into silence so deeply and for so long that I can never unpack myself using words. When I speak, I only pack myself a little differently.

I'm always telling myself I don't have many feelings. Even when something does affect me I'm only moderately moved. I almost never cry. It's not that I'm stronger than the ones with teary eyes, I'm weaker. They have courage. When all you are is skin and bones, feelings are a brave thing. I'm more of a coward. The difference is minimal though, I just use my strength not to cry. When I do allow myself a feeling, I take the part that hurts and bandage it up with a story that doesn't cry, that doesn't dwell on homesickness.