Each night, Liesel would step outside, wipe the door, and watch the sky. Usually it was like spillage - cold and heavy, slippery and gray - but once in a while some stars had the nerve to rise and float, if only for a few minutes. On those nights, she would stay a little longer and wait. Hello, stars.

...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.

When she faced the noise, she found the mayor’s wife in a brand-new bathrobe and slippers. On the breast pocket of the robe sat an embroidered swastika. Propaganda even reached the bathroom.

She was like a lone angel floating above the surface of the earth, laughing with delight because she could fly but crying out of loneliness.

It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

She let herself love me for three minutes. Can three minutes last forever? I ask myself, but already know the answer. Probably not, I reply. But maybe they last long enough.

I love and hate this place because it is full of words.