She looks at the swings, and I can see sheโs imagining what theyโd look like if the kids werenโt there. The guilt of this holds her down momentarily. It appears to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her love for them. I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.
Markus ZusakWhen 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.
Markus ZusakMy own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.
Markus Zusak