Could she smell my breath? Could she hear my cursed circular heart beat revolving like the crime it is in my deathly chest?

She was like a lone angel floating above the surface of the earth, laughing with delight because she could fly but crying out of loneliness.

I realize that nothing belongs to her anymore and she belongs to everything.

She was a Jew feeder without a question in the world on that man's first night in Molching. She was an arm reacher, deep into a mattress, to deliver a sketchbook to a teenage girl. (84.25)

I'm having bigger problems when I'm writing.

I carried Rudy softly through the broken street...with him I tried a little harder at comforting. I watched the contents of his soul for a moment and saw a black-painted boy calling the name Jesse Owens as he ran through an imaginary tape. I saw him hip-deep in some icy water, chasing a book, and I saw a boy lying in bed, imagining how a kiss would taste from his glorious next-door neighbor. He does something to me, that boy. Every time. It's his only detriment. He steps on my heart. He makes me cry.

Death waits for no man - and if he does, he doesn't usually wait for very long.