After Murakami

There should be no phase about it. There isn’t any after or before Murakami. There is not even a blimp in your life when you read him, for the very first time…or for that matter, for any number of times. The life-feel indicator shows no graphic deviation in your functioning, thinking, feeling. He mixes into your bloodstream, as smoothly as alcohol, the laced one. No discernible altering of the settings. At all. And that’s why you own him like he belongs, you gobble him up, and he slides down inside of you, effortlessly and stays there. And that’s that. You now know him, like you know yourself.