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Verișoara ta plânge și tu a strângi în brațe, ea spune că mama ta era mătușă ei preferată, tu stai cu spatele lipit de oblonul din dreapata al camionetei, îl vezi pe paznicul spitalului, îl privești, îi observi gesturile, acum deschide al doilea canat al porții ruginite, vezi patru câini ieșind pe trotuar.
Ea merge alături de ține, îți spune "potolește-te, suntem pe stradă..."
Voiai să duci gunoiul, te gândeai să-ți faci o cafea aveai de lucru la calculator...
Unfortunately I was not a fan of the rambling narrative. Just a never-ending stream of he did this and he did that and the narration went on like this for 200 pages, following people whose actions felt devoid of any purposeful meaning. Pointless dry and depressing. The constant shift between present and past tense was also grating. I wonder if this book was written based on journal entries. It felt like messy chunks of stream of consciousness.