Max lifted his head, with great sorrow and great astonishment. 'There were stars,' He said. 'They burned my eyes.’ ...from a Himmel street window, he wrote, the stars set fire to my eyes.

Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

She rubbed her eyes, and after a long study of his face, she spoke "Is it really you?" Is it from your cheek, she thought, that I took the seed? The man nodded. His heart wobbled and he held tighter to the branches. It is.

She gave 'The Dream Carrier' to Max as if words alone could nourish him.

Make sure you live,' she said. 'As decent as you can. I know you'll make mistakes, but sometimes you're meant to, okay?

That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

The dilemma, of course, is that such people save their most important words for after, when the surrounding humans are unlucky enough to find them.