Hammers on Bone (Persons Non Grata, #1)

by Cassandra Khaw

You could carve Harlem sunsets with that look he’s wearing.

Great phrase, no idea what it means

another haunt for the butter-and-egg men. No room for the damned.

a switchblade chill cutting deep into the cancer of a thousand years’ nap.

These days, it’s all bae and fleek, bootylicious selfies and cultural appropriation done on brand. That puts me in a weird linguistic space, with my chosen vocabulary. I mean, I could embrace the present, but I feel a responsibility to my meat’s absentee landlord.

You know how they say you never forget how to ride a bike? Magic’s like that. Deeper, even. The knowledge of it inks itself on the inside of your bones, as does the practice, the methodology of execution. You can’t unlearn it any more than you can unlearn the symbiosis of ventricle and aorta.