“Warm and soothing
That's how I remember home.
Walking into arms through the back door
Hearing voices I know well and long for.”

“Again I hear the creaking step! —
He's rapping at the door! —
Too well I know the boding sound
That ushers in a bore.”

“And I'm moved, it's so beautiful. Not what I wrote, but to have it given back like this. To have her remember the words and the tune. To hear it in her voice.”

“You don't know how easy death is. It's - it's like a door. A person simply walks through it, and she's lost to you forever.”

“My voice is not for me. Every time I make a sentence I think how many people for how many generations had a voice that no one could hear. At most they will be remembered as numbers; in many cases, even numbers don’t exist.”

“I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.”

“I am going back home in one piece, which I was a little bit nervous about. It's not how I wanted it to go, but I think we've opened bigger doors and bigger conversations.”

“There was something I wanted, something I envisioned, loving parents, a happy home with everyone smiling at me. A home that no one would ever want to leave, a warm place, a warm person. It exists, I know it does”

“Well, I went home with the waitress
The way I always do
How was I to know
She was with the Russians, too”

“FOG: Fog covers this region. / Can you still hear my voice? / I don't understand trees. / They try to grab our hair. / A branch has fallen on you. I know that. / Could you look behind me: / is there a load / on my back, as well?”