20 minutes later: a girl on Himmel Street. She looks up. She speaks in whisper. 'The sky is soft today, Max. The clouds are so soft and sad, and...' She looks away and crosses her arms. She thinks of her papa going to war and grabs her jacket at each side of her body. 'And it's cold, Max. It's so cold.

A fighter can be a winner, but that doesn't make a winner a fighter.

I'm sorry. I shouldn't be asking such things...' She let the sentence die its own death

Because you don't learn anything unless you can find the patience to read. TV takes that away from you. It robs you from your mind.

The conversation of bullets.

I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.

The bombs were coming-and so was I.