A fist is more than the sum of its fingers.

In the First World War, people would be receiving letters from loved ones who had been dead for weeks, and they would not know until that black-bordered telegram arrived. I remember, of course, when it was letters only, or the telephone, and you did not make expensive long-distance calls unless it was, "Come home to the funeral," or the like.

It made him feel invisible—not that he wanted to feel anything else.

You refuse to own yourself, you permit others to do it for you

When they're gone out of his head, these words, they'll be gone, everywhere, forever. As if they had never been.

Vampires get the joy of flying around and living forever, werewolves get the joy of animal spirits. But zombies, they're not rich, or aristocratic, they shuffle around. They're a group phenomenon, they're not very fast, they're quite sickly. So what's the pleasure of being one?

To take that risk, to offer life and remain alive, open yourself like this and become whole.