Attention shifted to him like sunflowers turning to the sun.

If there was a God, he'd guide the winds, let them blow for me so that, with a tug of my string, I'd cut loose my pain, my longing.

she held her breath, and in her head, counted seconds. She pretended that for each second she didn’t breathe, God would grant her another day

Air grew heavy, damp, almost solid. I was breathing bricks.

War doesn't negate decency. It demands it, even more than in times of peace.

Life goes on, unmindful of beginning, end…crisis or catharsis, moving forward like a slow, dusty caravan of kochis (nomads).

He is annoyed with their lack of interest, their blithe ignorance of the arbitrary genetic lottery that has granted them their privileged lives.