Two weeks to change the world, fourteen days to destroy it.

It was one of those moments of perfect tiredness, of having conquered not only the work at hand, but the night who had blocked the way.

I only know that all of those people would have sensed me that night, excluding the youngest of the children. I was the suggestion. I was the advice, my imagined feet walking into the kitchen and down the corridor.

The silence was always the greates temptation.

A book floated down the Amper River. A boy jumped in, caught up to it, and held it in his right hand. He grinned. He stood waist-deep in the icy, Decemberish water. “How about a kiss, Saumensch?” he said.

Tears were frozen to the book theif's face.

When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.