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When I say this is a love story, I mean this is a story about someone who believed in something impossible and beautiful and dangerous with such strength of character and devotion that they followed the thread of it all the way to the very end, no matter what the world threw at them. Whichever way you try to tell it, that sounds like a love story to me.
Night means darkness, darkness means introspection, introspection dredges up all kinds of monsters and my god, do those bastards keep us busy until dawn.
She nearly spat. “I’m not working in a bookshop,” she said. “Every asshole in my class wants to work in a bookshop. ‘It would be my dream job! I write books, I sell books.’ Please. People who work in bookshops are the worst. They’re . . . I dunno, capitalist librarians.” “I thought you liked books!” “I do!” She shook her head. “But I want to write them. I don’t want to have to sell someone else’s books. Most people’s books are shit!”
Well, she's insufferable.
Step one: Keep the infected and the uninfected apart. Step two: Control the narrative. For the uninfected this meant the surviving media was carefully scripted, the internet ruthlessly filtered. Information could no longer be trusted and thus it was subject to the strictest kinds of quarantine. Despite all this, news about the infected was reported not with fear or hysteria, but with pity and sympathy. It’s not their fault. Look at both sides. And obviously, keep your distance. For their safety and yours. Step three: Weaken the narrative. Make it a poorer story, make its followers doubt by
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So this is a bit on the nose lol
“I miss being infected. I miss the narrative.” Her smile was small, her eyes raw. “Not because of Val, never because of him. No, I miss the certainty of it. It made the world so . . . simple. It was us and them and that was that. The whole world was black and white. Everything was easy.
Two distinct sides, each of which think they’re the ones responsible for saving everyone. Each can only pretend to understand their counterpart, but here they are, rubbing up against one another, creating conflicting narratives of their own.
