Pieces

Sometimes there only seem to be clouds.

Tonight, the clouds hang above me, sulking in the sky. They watch me write the words. I don’t even think they bother to read.

I imagine myself in a room, where some shattered pieces are strewn on the floor, in front of me.

As I walk towards them, I have no idea what they are, so I approach with trepidation. They seem to be a puzzle, all torn up and thrown apart. They look injured.

I crouch down and being putting them together, finding each scrap that surrounds my feet.

Gradually, I see the picture form as I put it all together.

Gradually, I see.

These pieces on the ground.

Are made of me.

Autore: Markus Zusak