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?

Only hearts... They're in the inside of the inside of me.

No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment.

When I recollect her, I see a long list of colors, but it's the three in which I saw her in the flesh that resonate the most. Sometimes I manage to float far above those three moments. I hang suspended, until a septic truth bleeds toward clarity. That's when I see them formulate: THE COLORS RED: [rectangle] WHITE: [circle] BLACK: [swastika] They fall on top of each other. The scribbled signature black, onto the blinding global white, onto the thick soupy red.

Around us I can sniff out a savagery in the noisy southern air. It knifes it's way into my nose, but I do not bleed blood. It's fear I bleed, and it gushes out over my lip. I wipe it away, in a hurry.

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

She kept watching the words.