HERE IS A SMALL FACT

Or at least, how I try.

I am in all truthfulness attempting to be cheerful about this whole topic, though most people find themselves hindered in believing me, no matter my protestations. Please, trust me. I most definitely can be cheerful. I can be amiable. Agreeable. Affable. And that's only the A's. Just don't ask me to be nice. Nice has nothing to do with me.

A beginning.

I could introduce myself properly, but it's not really necessary. You will know me well enough and soon enough, depending on a diverse range of variables. It suffices to say that at some point in time, I will be standing over you, as genially as possible. Your soul will be in my arms. A color will be perched on my shoulder. I will carry you gently away.

I urge you -- don't be afraid.

You are going to die.

I'm nothing if not fair.

Then the humans.

Does this worry you?

REACTION TO THE AFOREMENTIONED FACT

That's usually how I see things.

Where are my manners?

-- Of course, an introduction.

First the colors.

At that moment, you will be lying there (I rarely find people standing up). You will be caked in your own body. There might be a discovery; a scream will dribble down the air. The only sound I'll hear after that will be my own breathing, and the sound of the smell, of my footsteps.

A SMALL THEORY

Personally, I like a chocolate-colored sky. Dark, dark chocolate. People say it suits me. I do, however, try to enjoy every color I see -- the whole spectrum. A billion or so flavors, none of them quite the same, and a sky to slowly suck on. It takes the edge off the stress. It helps me relax.

People observe the colors of a day only at its beginnings and ends, but to me it's quite clear that a day merges through a multitude of shades and intonations, with each passing moment. A single hour can consist of thousands of different colors. Waxy yellows, cloud-spat blues. Murky darknesses.

The question is, what color will everything be at that moment when I come for you? What will the sky be saying?

In my line of work, I make it a point to notice them.

Still, it's possible that you might be asking, why does he even need a vacation? What does he need distraction from?

As I've been alluding to, my one saving grace is distraction. It keeps me sane. It helps me cope, considering the length of time I've been performing this job. The trouble is, who could ever replace me? Who could step in while I take a break in your stock-standard resort-style vacation destination, whether it be tropical or of the ski trip variety? The answer, of course, is nobody, which has prompted me to make a conscious, deliberate decision -- to make distraction my vacation. Needless to say, I vacation in increments. In colors.

Which brings me to my next point.

It's the leftover humans.

They're the ones I can't stand to look at, although on many occasions I still fail. I deliberately seek out the colors to keep my mind off them, but now and then, I witness the ones who are left behind, crumbling among the jigsaw puzzle of realization, despair, and surprise. They have punctured hearts. They have beaten lungs.

The survivors.

* A Jewish fist fighter

It's just a small story really, about, among other things:

* A girl

* Some fanatical Germans

Which in turn brings me to the subject I am telling you about tonight, or today, or whatever the hour and color. It's the story of one of those perpetual survivors -- an expert at being left behind.

* An accordionist

* Some words

* And quite a lot of thievery

I saw the book thief three times.