“This was the first good look we had had of each other’s angry faces, but smiling was an impossibility. We couldn’t see our own faces, but looking at each other gave us an idea. My sister’s face was puffed up like a loaf of bread, and her eyes, normally large, black and uncannily clear, had become mere slits, their edges dark and blue as blue-black ink. A cross-shaped cut extended from the right edge of her lip into her cheek, twisting her whole mouth into a sideways inverted letter L, a sight so ugly I could not look at it for long. Her hair was caked with blood and the red clay of our house’s walls, as if she had been on the streets begging for years.”
Yoko Ōta, “Hiroshima, City of Doom”
A Bird's Eye View of Fashion, Food, Travel, Culture, Beverage and Curiosity 