Everything was good. But it was awful, too.

It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.

Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.

I always marvel at the humans' ability to keep going. They always manage to stagger on even with tears streaming down their faces.

You can do anything when it's not real. When it is real, nothing breaks your fall. Nothing gets between you and the ground.

As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.

When I was growing up, I wanted to be a house painter like my father, but I was always screwing up when I went to work with him. I had a talent for knocking over paint and painting myself into corners. I also realized fairly quickly that painting bored me.