I'm not the messenger at all. I'm the message.

Warily, she dares to allow me a smile. "It's okay. It's just...I'm not too good at talking to people." She looks away again as her shyness smothers her. "So, do you think it'd be all right if we don't talk?

I just want to write someone’s favorite book

The song was born on her breathe and died at her lips.

It amazes me what humans can do, even when streams are flowing down their faces and they stagger on, coughing and searching, and finding.

You’re a human, you should understand self-obsession.

She said it out loud, the words distributed into a room that was full of cold air and books. Books everywhere! Each wall was armed with overcrowded yet immaculate shelving. It was barely possible to see paintwork. There were all different styles and sizes of lettering on the spines of the black, the red, the gray, the every-colored books. It was one of the most beautiful things Liesel Meminger had ever seen. With wonder, she smiled. That such a room existed!