How does it happen? At what point is she born, the baffled, wounded adult of tomorrow? Is eleven what we react to for the rest of our lives?

I like the idea of songs sung by those without big voices. You know, small birdsongs that rise above the noise of the city.

The past is a very determined ghost, haunting every chance it gets.

You can accept or reject the way you are treated by other people, but until you heal the wounds of your past, you will continue to bleed. You can bandage the bleeding with food, with alcohol, with drugs, with work, with cigarettes, with sex, but eventually, it will all ooze through and stain your life. You must find the strength to open the wounds, stick your hands inside, pull out the core of the pain that is holding you in your past, the memories, and make peace with them

It reminded him of the truth—who he really was, and the fact that no matter how far he ran, his past would be right there with him.

Temporary, but excruciating, pain is the price of healing.