This is us, folks, this is us, Chang saying ""book,"" ("your hobby," "don't get obsessed about it," etc.), and Michael saying "book." Chang carrying some laundry/garbage bag, Michael not carrying some laundry/garbage bag; der Rest ist Schweigen (we live together for 20 years).
Right, so here are two examples of such paragraphs from the Green Eyes (opening Chapter 21 and 29, respectively; it's usually the first paragraph of a chapter that's difficult):
(Chapter 21, My father and your father were fathers): I'm on my way to the convenience store now, except that I'm not, since the truck doesn't start. Father is in his box, I can forget about him, but my truck is a different box, in particular when it acts up. I never knew it was a truck until Joe, a neighbor, told me so—I thought I had bought an SUV from a stupid lemon dealer, a first generation Mercedes 320 ML from another millennium. But after a few miles it transpired that the fine line between arrogance and hubris had been crossed once again by some autonomous part of my brain in that the lemon dealer turned out to be right. It helps a bit, though, that this Joe—a wealthy oil man from Louisiana who owns the latest version of my model at some six-digit pricepoint and the entire top floor of the condo—that Joe calls his ML a truck, it makes a difference in the delusion compartment whether it's your truck that breaks down, or your premium-brand SUV with leather seats and other luxe options.
(Chapter 29, The sycamore tree): I realized too late what I had done, or not done. In the confusion of my father’s arrival I had left the cell phone behind, and then, despite all the mental notes to self, had forgotten about Alice, because it had been exactly ten PM when Gracelyn suggested, insisted, in fact, that I sleep with Ben in one bed. That must have been it, the mental notes to self, the deities of the English language took offense and punish me dearly now, (or it’s other deities with other concerns that punish me dearly now, but dearly it is).
