Liesel's blood had dried inside of her. It crumbled. She almost broke into pieces on the steps.

The question is what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.

It's insane to be a writer and not be a reader. When I'm writing I'm more likely to be reading four or five books at once, just in bits and pieces rather than subjecting myself to a really brilliant book and thinking, "Well what's the point of me writing anything?" I'm more likely to read a book through when I take a break from writing.

You might argue that I make the rounds no matter what year it is, but sometimes the human race likes to crank things up a little. They increase the production of bodies and their escaping souls.

July 24, 6:03 A.M. The laundry was warm and the rafters were firm, and Michael Holzapfel jumped from the chair as if it were a cliff... Michael Holzapfel knew what he was doing. He killed himself for wanting to live.

Mistakes, mistakes, it's all I seem capable of at times.