15
Wherever we go, we take our language with us but it slips between the words and sinks into the silence of the fields. Curious children will pick up a few broken syllables and play with them.
We travelled across the realm of the unborn; we’ll ramble on the other side of the unthinkable. Life that can be described on a single page is but a shadow dance in the starlight; story that doesn’t have to be told more than once is but the clinking of wind chimes.
Chic plush drapery of the past conceals a corridor of mirrors, with its icy breath and a milky glimmer at the other end.
That day N. busied himself with thoughts about continuance and with excavations in his suitcase. He had barely touched it until now. He came across a brown oilcloth notebook. Actually, it had no right to be in his s
