the night of baba yaga – akira yotani
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Her dirty hands flopped at her knees. When the car went over a bump, a wad of phlegmy blood fell from her mouth onto her chest.
[…]
Light glanced off of the paint job. It was the sort of evening when the sunset burns. The glass towers of Shinjuku were tinted red, as if blood was streaming down the window panes.
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Chiseled blocks of fine white stone, stacked high in neat rows, topped off with accordion wire. Keeping people out. Or keeping something in.
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un roman extrem de vizual-detaliat, aproape ca pare scris cu o ecranizare in ganduri…
