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The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Boiling
Saws
Stirring
Lasts
Soup
Last
Burned
Redness
Black
Red
Streaked
Time
Sky
Pepper
Like
Peppers
Across
Crumbs
Places

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I want words at my funeral. But I guess that means you need life in your life.
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If her soul ever leaks, I want it to land on me.
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Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.
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It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
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Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.
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I watch the beauty for as long as I can, then turn and face the rest of it.
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The bombs were coming-and so was I.
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The nightmares arrived like they always did, much like the best player in the opposition when you've heard rumors that he might be injured or sick-but there he is, warming up with the rest of them, ready to take the field.
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I had many boxing matches with my brother in the backyard when we were younger, and I guess while other people abhor boxing for its brutality, I also have to admire anyone who climbs into the ring to face up to what could be the ultimate defeat.
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I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.
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The paper landed on the table, but the news was stapled to his chest. A tattoo.
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