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.

She gave 'The Dream Carrier' to Max as if words alone could nourish him.

I am hunted by humans.

July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.

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

I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.

If you ever write a book, I can only give you one piece of advice. Don't let your parents get involved.