Death, like virtue, has its degrees.

Funboy: Pal, something is seriously wrong with you. The Crow: Atrocity has that effect on me.

Life is just a dream on the way to death.

It can't rain all the time.

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

If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever.

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.