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.

He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It’s his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.

Very suddenly. Yes, quite suddenly, I didn't feel like I could handle my feeling of aloneness.

I wanted to ask her how the same thing could be so ugly and so glorious, and its words and stories so damning and brilliant.

A small fact: You are going to die....does this worry you?

I think, as the writer, you're always going to mourn something [left out of a film]. But you also just want to know there's a good reason for it being left out. On the whole, you want to give something to somebody creative. The worst thing you can do is say, "Here, be creative, but do it like I want you to do it." I was always very mindful of that.