We, that magic word, that syllable of belonging. Its sound tells others that you are a part of something instead of apart from everything, which is how I have always felt.
And I used to pity the poor souls who needed to record their pain on the page – the misfits, the outcasts, the wallflowers. The pretty one, the cheerleader, the prom queen didn’t need to do that, did she? She had no secret pain to share with a Moleskine.
There was literally a taste in my mouth, a thick oatmeal of annoyance.
He was a man who seemed designed to dwell only in a library or classroom, possibly in a bookstore café, sipping some sort of warm, herbal beverage from a travel mug.
Jag slog på min Kindle för att söka upp citat till en bokrecension men snubblade först över dessa fina, pricksäkra klipp ur Lisa Ungers In the Blood. Visst får ni lust att läsa senast nu, va? Älskar den cyniska träffsäkerheten!