The conversation of bullets.

There are so many moments to remember and sometimes I think that maybe we're not really people at all. Maybe moments are what we are.... Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

Summer came. For the books thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews.

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

I also fear that nothing really ends at the end. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

It felt as though the whole globe was dressed in snow. Like it has pulled it on, the way you pull on a sweater. Next to the train line, footprints were sunken to their shins. Trees wore blankets of ice. As you may expect, someone has died.

It's hard to not like a man who not only notices the colors, but speaks them