I am 61 pages into Hakuri Murakami’s Hard-boiled Wonderland and the End of the World. The writer filigrees a tempting spell. Between his meanings breathes the reader’s own. Here’s one: my long abandoned novel opener. A woman offers bread and stew to the storm tossed traveler. He thanks her by collapsing on her rutted floor. His unknown and hers, the story’s innuendo.
Prior to the technowindfall that brought the blog, countless pen-addicted humans hungered for the common meal, the fuel consumed by strangers. As I offer up my blog, I wonder: will this fuel ignite our strangeness? Will the night end well?
Don’t keel over yet. The story’s young.
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