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

They say that war is death's best friend, but I must offer you a different point of view on that one. To me, war is like the new boss who expects the impossible. He stands over your shoulder repeating one thin, incessantly: 'Get it done, get it done.' So you work harder. You get the job done. The boss, however, does not thank you. He asks for more.

The silence was always the greates temptation.

It would then be brought abruptly to an end, for the brightness had shown suffering the way.

I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.

He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

You should know it yourself- a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.