As she rode, she tried to tell herself something. / You don't deserve to be this happy, Liesl. You really don't. / Can a person steal happiness? Or is it just another internal, infernal human trick?
She couldn't tell exactly where the words came from. What mattered was that they reached her. They arrived and kneeled next to her bed.
I love and hate this place because it is full of words.
Breathing then, for
When I picked him up originally, the boy's spirit was soft and cold, like ice-cream. He started melting in my arms. Then warming up completely. Healing.
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.
No está de más mencionar que todo patrón tiene siempre alguna brecha y que un día este acaba dando un vuelco o pasa página.
It's much easier . . . to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
It's lucky I was there. Then again, who am I kidding? I'm in most places at least once, and in 1943, I was just about everywhere.
I was being Jesse Owens. he answered as though it was the most natural thing on earth to be doing. There was even something implicit in his tone that suggested something along the lines of, What the h...
I wanted to tell the book thief many things, about beauty and brutality. But what couldI tell her about those things that she didn't already know? I wanted to explain that I am constantly overestimati...
Do you still play the accordian?
But neither of us knows, because a fight's worth nothing if you know from the beginning that you're going to win. It's the ones in between that test you. They're the ones that bring questions with the...
I don't want to stand in naked silence, pathetically unaware of how to be.
Сначала краски.Потом люди.Так я обычно вижу мир.Или, по крайней мере, пытаюсь.
There are pieces of me on the ground.
The water crumbles on it's way down as my hands and feet push me forward. The world is lightening, taking shape, and turning to color. It feels like it's being painted around me.
The Proclaimers thunder through my head.Imagine it.Imagine killing someone to the tune of two Scottish nerds wearing glasses and flattop haircuts. How will I ever listen to that song again? What will...
Steve, on the other hand, has plenty of friends, but he wouldn't bleed for any of them, because he wouldn't trust them to bleed for him. In that way he's just as alone as me.
Sometimes I think my papa is an accordion. When he looks at me and smiles and breathes, I hear the notes.