I’m currently reading Fragile Things by Neil Gaiman (whose words I somehow loved before reading a single one of his works and by now I’ve read quite a few and have never been disappointed) and, my goodness, how I wish I could write somewhat like he does. If I could have even a drop of his writing talent, I would be greatly satisfied. This book contains some of my favourite, most-loved pieces of his writings. Here’s one (called “Strange”):
There are a hundred things she has tried to chase away the things she won’t remember and that she can’t even let herself think about because that’s when the birds scream and the worms crawl and somewhere in her mind it’s always raining a slow and endless drizzle.
You will hear that she has left the country, that there was a gift she wanted you to have, but it is lost before it reaches you. Late one night the telephone will sing, and a voice that might be hers will say something that you cannot interpret before the connection crackles and is broken.
Several years later, from a taxi, you will see someone in a doorway who looks like her, but she will be gone by the time you persuade the driver to stop. You will never see her again.
Whenever it rains you will think of her.