Victor Robert Lee

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Cono knew that all three of his tormentors would know the anthem by heart from their childhood years. They had sung it daily to belong to the elite of their country, wearing around their necks the red ties of the Communist Party Youth Brigade, which had formed their beings and all that they would be and would ever believe, even as communism became a ghost and the party a web of corruption

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To Cono’s mind the three assailants were all three nearly motionless even as they skittered and dodged, firing, maneuvering for a kill. Cono felt exhilaration—the ecstatic awareness that his strange brain and body had ordained him for just such moments, by allowing him to enter a space outside of time

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After all, the whole of humanity was anchored by inventions, contrivances, unrealities. Xiao Li lived on dreams, as most people do

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No person is just one person. Everyone is a crate of fruits, a crate of mixed fruits. The apple in there may have worms, a peach may be mildewed, a banana may be too green, a pear may be in perfect ripeness, and a melon may have the sweetest smell

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Your death rides a fast camel