Whiskey, like a beautiful woman, demands appreciation. You gaze first, then it's time to drink.

Time expands, then contracts, all in tune with the stirrings of the heart.

Narratives have the same power, I think. Some readers of my novels ask me, "Why do you understand me?". That's a huge pleasure of mine because it means that readers and I can make our narratives relative.

We knew exactly what we wanted in each other. And even so, it ended. One day it stopped, as if the film simply slipped off the reel.

So for all that we might speak words in each other's vicinity, this could never develop into anything that could be called a conversation. It was as though we were speaking in different languages. If the Dalai Lama were on his deathbed and the jazz musician Eric Dolphy were to try to explain to him the importance of choosing one's engine oil in accordance with changes in the sound of the bass clarinet, that exchange might have been more worthwhile and effective than my conversations with Noboru Wataya.

Until the bitter end, the emptiness inside her was hers alone.

And it was the kind of thing that loses the most important nuances when reduced to words. He had never told anyone about it, and he probably never would.