American Gods

Every hour wounds. The last one kills.

There are stories that are true, in which each individual’s tale is unique and tragic, and the worst of the tragedy is that we have heard it before, and we cannot allow ourselves to feel it too deeply.

“So you aren’t American?” asked Shadow.
“Nobody’s American,” said Wednesday. “Not originally. That’s my point.”

People only fight over imaginary things.

He was no longer scared of what tomorrow might bring, because yesterday had brought it.

“I worship you with my body,” he whispers, as she pushes him inside her. Her labia pull slickly across his face, and his eyes slip into darkness.

but he said nothing. It seemed the smartest thing to say.

I thought she was my best friend,” said Audrey. “We’d talk every day. When Robbie and I had a fight, she’d be the first one to know—we’d go down to Chi-Chi’s for margaritas and to talk about what scumpots men can be. And all the time she was fucking him behind my back.”
“Please go away, Audrey.”
“I just want you to know I had good reason for what I did.”
He said nothing.
“Hey!” she shouted. “Hey! I’m talking to you!”
Shadow turned. “Do you want me to tell you that you were right when you spit in Laura’s face? Do you want me to say it didn’t hurt? Or that what you told me made me hate her more than I miss her? It’s not going to happen, Audrey.”
She drove beside him for another minute, not saying anything. Then she said, “So, how was prison, Shadow?”
“It was fine,” said Shadow. “You would have felt right at home.”

It’s what people do. They believe. And then they will not take responsibility for their beliefs; they conjure things, and do not trust the conjurations. People populate the darkness; with ghosts, with gods, with electrons, with tales. People imagine, and people believe: and it is that belief, that rock-solid belief, that makes things happen.

We draw our lines around these moments of pain, and remain upon our islands, and they cannot hurt us.