I will be brave, thought Coraline. No, I am brave.

Every lover is, in his heart, a madman, and, in his head, a minstrel.

I thought about moving south, about continuing to run, continuing to pretend I was alive. But it was, I knew now, much too late for that. There are doors, after all, between the living and the dead, and they swing in both directions.

And if there's a moral there, I don't know what it is, save maybe that we should take our goodbyes whenever we can.

Let her tell stories and dance in the rain, somersault, tumble and run, her joys must be high as her sorrows are deep, let her grow like a weed in the sun.

I'm never quite sure if I'm me when I'm dressed up.

We wrapped our dreams in words and patterned the words so that they would live forever, unforgettable.