In the shell-shocked kitchen, somewhere near the stove, there's an image of a lonely, overworked typewriter. It sits in a distant, near-empty room. Its keys are faded and a blank sheet waits patiently upright in the assumed position. It wavers slightly in the breeze from the window. Coffee break is nearly over. A pile of paper, the height of a human stands casually by the door. It could easily be smoking.
( Markus Zusak )
[ The Book Thief ]
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