Read: 1 May 2013
4 / 5 stars
The functional division between morning and not morning is arbitrary and artificial because we are too conditioned to face the honesty of admitting otherwise. The natural definition of the two is measured by daylight and darkness. Which is why a book like this is best appreciated as 4:14 a.m. bleeds its way toward dawn and the day's potential to become one thing creeps along to reach the other; when you're either so hungover you can only view the world through the safety of metaphors that won't make sense in later lucidity or too consumed with your own mortality to move, you watch as sunlight and shadow wrestle their way across the battleground of your pillow's unoccupied half, the line between them moving like the minute hand that drains opportunity from the day before you realize that nothing will make tomorrow feel any different.
When she stretches upon completing the book she hadn't realized she'd read in a sort of upright fetal position, she overextends her right thigh muscle and the distance between the initial pain and its excruciatingly slow march toward the exit will be how she remembers all 23 characters and their hundreds of stories when she finally limps back to bed.
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