Top Highlights

• So when my mother said “white as a rice cake,” I realized, she meant a rice cake before it is steamed. A face as startlingly pristine as that.
• Why do old memories constantly drift to the surface here in this unfamiliar city?
• At times my body feels like a prison, a solid, shifting island threading through the crowd. A sealed chamber carrying all the memories of the life I have lived and the mother tongue from which they are inseparable.
• So that it seems the place I flee to is not so much a city on the other side of the world as further into my own interior.
• But can we really call it white? That vast, soundless undulation between this world and the next, each cold water molecule formed of drenched black darkness.