HeartheWindSing

Hear the Wind Sing by Haruki Murakami 1 “There’s no such thing as perfect writing. Just like there’s no such thing as perfect despair.” A writer I happened to meet when I was in college told me this. It was a long time before I finally understood what those words meant, but just knowing them was a kind of comfort that put me at ease. There’s no such thing as a without a single injury, which I can’t call anything but a stroke of luck. Awakened by the shock, I kicked away the broken door and climbed out. The hood of the car was knocked ten meters away, coming to rest in front of the monkey cage, and the front end of the car bore the giant imprint of a stone pillar. The monkeys seemed to be terribly upset at being jarred awake by the noise. The Rat, with his hands still on the steering wheel, was leaning forward, not because he was hurt, but because he was vomiting onto the dashboard the pizza he’d eaten just an hour before. I clambered up onto the roof of the car and peered through the sunroof onto the driver’s seat. “You okay?” “Mm, but I might’ve drank too much. You know, with the throwing up and all.” “Can you get out?” “Pull me u......