My voice is like a rumour. I'm not sure if it came out or not, or if it is true.

One was a book thief. The other stole the sky.

The conversation of bullets.

The dilemma, of course, is that such people save their most important words for after, when the surrounding humans are unlucky enough to find them.

You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.

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.

All my friends seem to be smart arses. Don't ask me why. Like many things, it is what it is.