I recently finished Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse-Five. Three down, and I've yet to be disappointed by this man (although my pretty cousin feels a little differently):
Billy licked his lips, thought a while, inquired at last: "Why me?"
Oh, I acknowledge my repetitiveness, but—mornings are the best."That is a very Earthling question to ask, Mr. Pilgrim. Why you? Why us for that matter? Why anything? Because this moment simply is."
Maybe I should re-read it? Maybe I just need a reading partner :)
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