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

Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.

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.

How'd it feel?" Rube asked himself. "I don't know exactly, but it made me want to howl.

I am constantly overestimating and underestimating the human race - that rarely do I ever simply estimate it.

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.