[b]Colson Whitehead
What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas, because in the end, whatever goes down, whatever you get up to, your triumphs and transgressions, nobody actually understands what it means except for you.[/b]
That’s the other way to look at it.
He had met this sort of white man before, earnest and believing what came out of their mouths. The veracity of their words was another matter, but at least they believed them. The southern white man was spat from the loins of the devil and there was no way to forecast his next evil act.
Didn’t Neil Young write a song about them?
Resentment was the hinge of her personality.
Not only that but it squeaked a lot.
The world is mean from the start and gets meaner every day. It uses you up until you only dream of death.
I know: this could never happen to you.
Everything in the garden is dying, that’s what time of year it is.
Right about now he thought.
All he felt now was envy. These people had expectations. Of the world, of the future, it didn’t matter–expectation was such an innovative concept to him that he couldn’t help but be a bit moved by what they were saying. Whatever that was.
I’ll tell you what, if you don’t ask me about mine I won’t ask you about yours.