When he moves, a streetlight stabs him, and the words flow out like blood.

He killed himself for wanting to live.

She rubbed her eyes, and after a long study of his face, she spoke "Is it really you?" Is it from your cheek, she thought, that I took the seed? The man nodded. His heart wobbled and he held tighter to the branches. It is.

Five hundred souls. I carried them in my fingers, like suitcases. Or I'd throw them over my shoulder. It was only the the children I carried in my arms.

She could smell the pages. She could almost taste the words as they stacked up around her.

THE LAST WORDS OF MAX VANDENBURG: You've done enough.

I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.