Summer came. For the book thief, everything was going nicely. For me, the sky was the color of Jews. When their bodies had finished scouring for gaps in the door, their souls rose up. When their fingernails had scratched at the wood and in some cases were nailed into it by the sheer force of desperation, their spirits came toward me, into my arms, and we climbed out of those shower facilities, onto the roof and up, into eternity's certain breadth. They just kept feeding me. Minute after minute. Shower after shower.

I have hated words and I have loved them, and I hope I have made them right.

Maybe everyone can live beyond what they're capable of.

When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist in his face." (31.26)

When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

The commitment had disappeared, and although he still watched the imagined glory of stealing, she could see now he was not believing. He was trying to believe it, and that’s never a good sign.

***A Last note from your narrator*** I am haunted by humans.