Of course you're real-like any thought or any story. It's real when you're in it.

Competence was attractive.

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.

Papa sat with me tonight. He brought the accordion down and sat close to where Max used to sit. I often look at his fingers and face when he plays. the accordion breathes. There are lines on his cheeks. They look drawn on, and for some reason, when I see them, I want to cry. It is not for any sadness or pride. I just like the way they move and change. Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

Handfuls of frosty water can make almost anyone smile, but it cannot make them forget.

The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.

What would you do if you were me? Tell me. Please tell me! But you're far from this. Your fingers turn the strangeness of these pages that somehow connect my life to yours. Your eyes are safe. The story is just another few hundred pages of your mind. For me, it's here. It's now. I have to go through with this, considering the cost at every turn. Nothing will be the same.