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.
Our footsteps run, and I don't want them to end. I want to run and laugh and feel like this forever. I want to avoid any awkward moment when the realness of reality sticks its fork into our flesh, leaving us standing there, together. I want to stay here, in this moment, and never go to other places, where we don't know what to say or what to do.
A small but noteworthy note. I've seen so many young men over the years who think they're running at other young men. They are not. They are running at me.
It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.
We both laugh and run and the moment is so thick around me that i feel like dropping into it to let it carry me.
Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?
For at least twenty minutes she handed out the story. The youngest kids were soothed by her voice, and everyone else saw visions of the whistler running from the scene. Liesel did not. The book thief saw only the mechanics of the words--their bodies stranded on the paper, beaten down for her to walk on. Somewhere, too, in the gaps between a period and the next capital letter, there was also Max. She remembered reading to him when he was sick. It he in the basement? she wondered. Or is he stealing a glimpse of the sky again?
He's most likely robbing the bank as a paycheck on the world for winning the ugliness prize at his local fete three years running.
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