They talk about the Rapture; I do not believe it.
My Baby (Got Nothing At All) - Japanese Breakfast I miss Misty May on days like these. The air is not so heavy with rain and cloudy heat. There's a breeze in the air, like Yepe says, as she sits with me in an old, red rickshaw on our way to my new apartment. I remember Misty May because he is, to me, perhaps the only stable thing when seasons change. I miss the show-and-tells, the freshman rigor and apprehension, and the movies—the terribly good movies. I still remember him as a 12-year-old—how much we’ve grown since then! So quietly, so naturally. I find that Delhi has the capacity to be kinder, but that I must seek it. So, I have not yet argued against plans being made and no longer reject the prospect of another year here—not as vehemently, anyway. I attend Bible studies like a little devilish imposter, but I have faith in their amens and hallelujahs. I should say, I have faith in people’s faith, but I do not know that I have some of my own. They talk about the Rapture; I do not...