Liesel observed the strangeness of her foster father's eyes. They were made of kindness, and silver.

Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.

Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

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

It was Russia, January 5, 1943, and just another icy day. Out among the city and snow, there were dead Russians and Germans everywhere. Those who remained were firing into the blank pages in front of them. Three languages interwove. The Russian, the bullets, the German.

Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

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.