All borders are porous, by these powers combined, and life is right
fucking strange enough as it is without your having
to understand what you could never understand.
What's the use of even talking about it?
As she handed me my boarding pass, she asked if anyone had ever said I looked like Jesus. I was feeling frisky, so I leaned forward and whispered, “I am Jesus.” She gasped. “I’m a good Catholic girl—don’t say that!”
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These four words ignited fear – even terror – in the ranks of unmarried American men of all ages, races, religions, and economic means. So why should I be any different?
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“Devon, I have a confession.”
“I was hoping you did. I’m a bit confused this morning.”
“You see, that wasn’t me in your bed last night."
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On our sweaty walk, we passed under archways of feathering clotheslines with the belief we were following the faded footsteps of scribes and philosopher-kings
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Or maybe it’s not true, maybe Jost is in all of us, me, a person like him, stalwart, inflexible, easily destroyed by the modern world;
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He tried to twist prejudice his way, that he was lucky to sit high above the others, alone and uninterrupted. And for a couple of hours he could escape and leave his blues somewhere next to nowhere.
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The man’s voice broke the silence. Though it was soft it seemed to reverberate throughout the house, as if the vibrations of his vocal cords had become a part of the very air molecules, sending them all ablaze. Rosa stayed frozen in her bed, heart hammering so hard it actually hurt. She tried to listen to what he was saying and think of what she should do at the same time, but it was as if her mind had jammed. Everything seemed fuzzy and slow except for her heart and its persistent thumping. Her underarms felt moist and her skin burned with anxiety. She wanted to run, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to move.
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