People once believed that when someone dies, a crow carries their soul to the land of the dead. But sometimes, something so bad happens that a terrible sadness is carried with it and the soul can't rest. Then sometimes, just sometimes, the crow can bring that soul back to put the wrong things right.

Death, like virtue, has its degrees.

So the crow spirals down through a collapsed dream and the only sound it makes in like a concave scream.

Life is just a dream on the way to death.

It's not death if you refuse it... It is if you accept it.

It can't rain all the time.

If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them.