"In the spring of her twenty-second year, Sumire fell in love for the first time in her life. An intense love, a veritable tornado sweeping things across the plains - flattening everything in its path, tossing things up in the air, ripping them to shreds, cutting them to bits. The tornado's intensity doesn't abate for a second as it blasts across the ocean, laying waste to Angkor Wat, incinerating an Indian jungle, tigers and everything, transforming itself into a Persian desert sandstorm, burying an exotic fortress under a sea of sand."

- H. Murakami, Sputnik Sweetheart

Sometimes I get the feeling maybe I'm reading too much into this guy. Maybe he's good but not as good as I think he is. Maybe he's warped my brain in someway, stolen it without me knowing and kept it in some gelatinous blue liquid in an underground lab he has in his basement. Experimenting with it, transferring whatever he wants me to think into it. And thus impairing completely my ability to judge anything fairly, enslaving me to every word he puts on paper. If the book I pick up starts like this, I don't mind being held hostage thus. I don't know if I should stop with him already.