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Their names vanish at dawn with the stars.
The clothes, the well-groomed features, the car, they cannot hide the essential poverty of his birth; its smell is stronger than any liquor or cologne.
his mind a bird sleeping above the ocean as it flies.
For the first time in his life he looks at himself as an object to be improved, he spends money on his grooming, gets a manicure once a month, a pedicure every other, takes a head massage from Dilip in Green Park.
A wave of sorrow rises through his skin. Scars the tissue.
He is an island. Marooned. No past, no future.
He’ll do anything for a lungful that will send shards of forgetting into his brain.
She was terrified of being irrelevant, of being found out, of being left behind.
I’ve had to construct myself. I’m reminded daily, in the mirror, I’m nothing without my suit, without my car, without my watch. Without these props, I barely exist.”
“The chains of existence,” she said, “have to be weak enough to break.” She kissed him. “But strong enough to carry you through in the first place.”
I used to be so good at telling the truth. I was so good at telling the truth that I discovered it was easy to tell a lie.
Life just runs away from you. It never comes back, however hard you try, however much you want it to. This is the lesson you should know. You have to adapt or die.
