Bryan

“Now, tell me. Where did you get that?” He glanced down in the direction of her accusing stare. “Oh, that! Somebody lent it to me.” He was wearing it specially. A winged penis. To meet his wife’s people. She would never understand Romans.”
― Ruth Downie, Tabula Rasa

“lacuna”
― Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage

“He calmed himself, shut his eyes, and fell asleep. The rear light of consciousness, like the last express train of the night, began to fade into the distance, gradually speeding up, growing smaller until it was, finally, sucked into the depths of the night, where it disappeared. All that remained was the sound of the wind slipping through a stand of white birch trees.”
― Haruki Murakami, Colorless Tsukuru Tazaki and His Years of Pilgrimage

“My cousins are hurting. My aunt is hurting. My mother is hurting. And there is no one here to help. How is this the good life, when even the air in this place threatens to wrap its fingers around my throat? In Haiti, with all its problems, there was always a friend or a neighbor to share in the misery. And then, after our troubles were tallied up like those points at the basketball game, we would celebrate being alive. But here, there isn’t even a slice of happiness big enough to fill up all these empty houses, and broken buildings, and wide roads that lead to nowhere and everywhere. Every bit of laughter, every joyous moment, is swallowed up by a deep, deep sadness.”
― Ibi Zoboi, American Street