If her soul ever leaks, I want it to land on me.

Grimly, she realized that clocks don't make a sound that even remotely resembles ticking, tocking. It was more the sound of a hammer, upside down, hacking methodically at the earth. It was the sound of a grave.

It was a Monday and they walked on a tightrope to the sun.

That's typically what writers do; we just sit around complaining most of the time. And the better things are going, the more they complain.

How about a kiss, Saumensch?

When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.

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