Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?

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

Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.

It’s the leftover humans. The survivors. They’re the ones I can’t stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprises. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs. Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It’s the story of one of those perpetual survivors –an expert at being left behind.

You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls.

It was a style not of perfection, but warmth. Even mistakes had a good feeling about them

She closes the door completely, and I crouch there. I allow myself to fall forward and rest my head on the door frame. My breath bleeds. My heartbeat drowns my ears.