“What breaks in daybreak? Is it the night? Is it the sun, cracked in two by the horizon like an egg, spilling out light?”
“In the darkness, two shadows, reaching through the hopeless, heavy dusk. Their hands meet, and light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out of the sun.”
“The sun, an hour above the horizon, is poised like a bloody egg upon a crest of thunderheads; the light has turned copper: in the eye portentous, in the nose sulphurous, smelling of lightning.”
“The sun has just risen, weak and watery-looking, like it had just spilled itself over the horizon and is too lazy to clean itself up.”
“Books are like eggs. Somethings you have to crack them open to get anything out.”
“A red sun rises. Blood has been spilled this night.”