A man can see by starlight, if he takes the time.

I thought so at first, but there is reason to believe that he is still alive. But that in itself does not constitute a problem.

It is daylight for him. ...

We are never tired so long as we can see far enough.

He's safe as long as he can laugh, he thinks, and it works pretty fair.

I'm not so sure he's mad, Father. Just a little devious in his sanity.

We make each other alive; it doesn't make a difference if it hurts.

And he still thinks, in the little bit of his head that's still him, that he's not a zombie. That he's not dead, that there's a threshold he hasn't stepped over. But he crossed it long time ago.

One more day and he'll be dreamin'.
Let the night time roll away.
He'll do great things tomorrow
(so much to do today).
Another mountain he'll be climbin'
to a valley down below.
There's sunshine all around him
where the peaceful waters flow.

He thrusts his fists against the posts and still insists he sees the ghosts

But he will have his memories, Lance - long after we've forgotten him.

Yes, he is here in this
open field, in sunlight, among
the few young trees set out
to modify the bare facts — he's here, but only
because we are here.
When we go, he goes with us

to be your hands that never
do violence, your eyes
that wonder, your lives

that daily praise life
by living it, by laughter.

He is never alone here,
never cold in the field of graves.

passes he stands for a moment close to us, as though illumined by a flash of lightning. Then we see him as he really is.

He is able who thinks he is able.