“The love between a writer and a reader is never celebrated.”
Once they are buried under dirt, people become place. Flesh becomes earth, geography. They become enmapped, acquire fixed coordinates. That afternoon, she would be going to see her father, that patch of soil to the left of the cemetery entrance, third row. A momentary spasm took hold of her left eye. She slapped it shut.
I have to pee. but I can’t be bothered to get up at the moment—besides it’s not like I can’t hold it in for a few minutes more—the sensation is still at that phase where it is not sure of itself and can be easily ignored. . .
Time flows, wild and untamed like a river. It sweeps people off their feet, dragging them along its path, merciless and free, spreading them apart through cliffs and streams. Those who survive, stand the test of time. Those who survive, live to call the rest history.
‘The day had arrived. Once again, a day like all the others. History was having coffee as it prepared to repeat itself. This time I was to be patient.”
This unreal country 