42
" He found Granny on the porch, asleep. Her chin sat on her chest, rising and falling with her breath. He gathered her up in his arms, light as a girl, and carried her inside to her room. He covered her in her old handed-down quilt. The outer layers were burnished to a luster over decades of sleeping flesh, the inner batting composed of older blankets still. He tucked it under her feet, her elbows and shoulders, and went out into the den and opened the door of the wood stove. A mouth of red coals. He added two lengths of the seasoned white oak they kept stacked on the porch, hot-burning wood for cold nights, and stoked it to a fury before stepping outside. "
― Taylor Brown , Gods of Howl Mountain
50
" Looks like things are good,” Day said casually. “I’m happy for you.”
“Things were better than good, baby. My mom was so happy to see me. She made me raisin bread, and she even popped me in the head a few times when I told her I’d pissed you off. She wants to meet you real soon, sweetheart,” God said breathlessly around all his excitement.
“I’m looking forward to it,” Day said climbing in bed.
“Oh come on, Leo, you can’t still be mad at me.” God huffed. When Day still didn’t speak, God threw his hands up in the air. “Okay, fine. I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry all right. There. Does that make you happy now, or do I have to go out and by you some fuckin’ flowers and candy and shit? Stop acting like this. I had a good day, babe, and I want to fuck you.” God dropped his voice low.
“I have a headache and don’t feel like having sex…since you’re dating a bitch. Good night, Cashel.” Day flicked the switch on the small lamp by his side of the bed putting them in total darkness. Day pulled the covers up on him and turned his back to God and willed himself to go to sleep.
Day woke up before five a.m. and was pissed when he couldn’t go back to sleep. Although his back was to him, he could tell God was awake too by the way he was breathing. Day finally got sick of lying there and got out of bed. He slid his feet in his leather slippers and went downstairs. Day got the paper off the front step and went to the kitchen for coffee. He was in the den watching Food Network, sipping his second cup when he had an urge to go back upstairs and climb back in bed with God.
This was bullshit. This was a stupid fight they were having and he wanted it over. Day was sure there would be real shit for them to fight about in the future, they didn’t need to waste time on crap like this. But still…Day didn’t move. "
― A.E. Via
57
" Like most people I am smarter than some, dumber than others, skinnier than most, and fatter than a few, but none was ever more confused than I was. I flew with confusion always parallel to me, and a whole internal chase at my rear. The one matter that was not confusing to me, but seemed to escape all the others, was the fact that the only thing that was certain to become obsolete, would necessarily become wearied and worn, was the truth. I knew this in spite of the truth that I had had little truck with the truth in my life. It was not that I considered myself a resident in a den of lies, but rather that my history was shrouded and diced and soaking wet with hysteria and contradiction. Contradictions or no, my trajectory through life, though different from most, was, nonetheless, a trajectory. "
― Percival Everett , I Am Not Sidney Poitier
59
" She thought constantly about Paris and avidly read all the society pages in the papers. Their accounts of receptions, celebrations, the clothes worn, and all the accompanying delights enjoyed, whetted her appetite still further. Above all, however, she was fascinated by what these reports merely hinted at. The cleverly phrased allusions half-lifted a veil beyond which could be glimpsed devastatingly attractive horizons promising a whole new world of wicked pleasure. From where she lived, she looked on Paris as representing the height of all magnificent luxury as well as licentiousness...she conjured up the images of all the famous men who made the headlines and shone like brilliant comets in the darkness of her sombre sky. She pictured the madly exciting lives they must lead, moving from one den of vice to the next, indulging in never-ending and extraordinarily voluptuous orgies, and practising such complex and sophisticated sex as to defy the imagination. It seemed to her that hidden behind the façades of the houses lining the canyon-like boulevards of the city, some amazing erotic secret must lie." The uneventful life she lived had preserved her like a winter apple in an attic. Yet she was consumed from within by unspoken and obsessive desires. She wondered if she would die without ever having tasted the wicked delights which life had to offer, without ever, not even once, having plunged into the ocean of voluptuous pleasure which, to her, was Paris. "