There was, I thought, a type of man who’d frequent a bathhouse. This turned out to be ignorance.
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In the middle of the night, the train makes one of many stops in a small town whose name appears written in a dream alphabet.
I am now one of a small number of people to have actually seen The Four in the flesh. Well, not quite the flesh.
They had only been married a year and she knew with absolute certainty that his mother would blame her for this.
And the Word became flesh: coarse hair, crooked smile, the taste of salt on his clavicle. I am the disciple whom he loved.
I asked about the children we were to study: who were they, why were they to undergo the test, what was the purpose of our program? Though I also knew it wasn’t any of my business.
At first, it was just this hazy glow on the horizon, but then it got brighter and took on more of a definite shape. It was almost as if—it’s weird to say it, even now—it was looking for us.
It couldn’t happen without effort. Nothing happened without effort, except catastrophe.
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