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Outside is dark. The kitchen light is loud. It deafens me as I walk towards it.

Markus Zusak

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Markus Zusak
Age: 49
Born: 1975
Born: January 1
Novelist
Writer
Sydney
NSW
Light
Kitchen
Loud
Towards
Outside
Walk
Walks
Dark

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Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.
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How does it feel, anyway? How does what feel? When you take one of those books? At that moment, she chose to keep still. If he wants an answer, he'd have to come back, and he did. Well? he asked, but again, it was the boy who replied, before Liesel could even open her mouth. It feels good, doesn't it? To steal something back.
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I am hunted by humans.
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Humans, if nothing else, have the good sense to die.
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My own eyes try to sleep, but they don't. They stay wide awake as time snarls forward and silence drops down, like measured thought.
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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.
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Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
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The happening that happened was that I met this girl.
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Better that we leave the paint behind, Hans told her, than ever forget the music.
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And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.
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As we walk back, it feels like the city is engulfing us. Adrenalin still pours through our veins. Sparks flow through to our fingers. We've still been running in the mornings, but the city's different then. It's filled with hope and with bristles of winter sunshine. In the evening, it's like it dies, waiting to be born again the next morning.
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The sky is blue today, Max, and there is a big long cloud, and it's stretched out, like a rope. At the end of it, the sun is like a yellow hole. . .
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