The Word

     All that was visible was the rear of the building next door. A shabby, miserable sort of building. The kind where shabby people spent one shabby day after another doing their shabby work. The kind of fallen-from-grace sort of building you find in any city, the kind which Charles Dickens could spend ten pages describing. The clouds floating above the building were like hard clumps of dirt from a vacuum cleaner no one ever cleaned. Or maybe more like all the contradictions of the Third Industrial Revolution condensed and set to float in the sky. Regardless, it was going to rain soon.

 – Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

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