When she spoke, it had sounded too bright, a bit artificial, like a fluorescent light bulb. A flicker, something not quite steady at the center. Too bright, and a bit brittle, as though she might break into a thousand pieces if she didn’t hold herself together. A million. An infinite breakage, the kind that couldn’t be mended.
Judith Kitchen, The House on Eccles Road
My current read is breathtaking, poetic, and in some turns unsettling.