Today I am a blogging machine.

Haruki Murakami from Kafka on the Shore,
I hope none of this ruins the plot in case you read it yourself, but I strongly doubt it could.

"Sometimes fate is like a small sandstorm that keeps changing directions. You change direction but the sandstorm chases you. You turn again, but the storm adjusts. Over and over you play this out, like some ominous dance with death just before dawn. Why? Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you. So all you can do is give in to it, step right inside the storm, closing your eyes and plugging up your ears so the sand doesn't get in, and walk through it, step by step. There's no sun there, no moon, no direction, no sense of time. Just fine white sand swirling up into the sky like pulverized bones."

"I'm Kafka on the Shore, you say. Your lover--and your son. The boy named Crow. And the two of us can't be free. We're caught up in a whirlpool, pulled beyond time. Somewhere, we were struck by lightning. But not the kind of lightning you can see or hear... You listen as the blank within her is filled. It's a faint sound, like fine sand on a shore crumbling in the moonlight...Until Monday morning dawns you hold each other, listening to time passing by."