by Haruki Murakami (2007). His usual metaphysical, alienation fare, ever so well written. The action, if we can call it that, takes places over a single night in Tokyo, starting off at a Denny. Spooky, creepy, a compelling read:
Before long there is movement in Eri’s face again — a reflective twitching of the flesh of one cheek, as if to chase away a tiny fly that has just alighted there. Then her right eyelid flutters minutely. Waves of thought are stirring. In a twilight corner of her consciousness, one tiny fragment and another tiny fragment call out wordlessly to each other, their spreading ripples intermingling. The process takes places before our eyes. A unit of thought begins to form this way. Then it links with another unit that has been made in another region, and the fundamental system of self-awarenes takes shape. In other words, she is moving, step by step, toward wakefulness.