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Let’s pretend that you saw him, once, say, sitting in a café some bright day in autumn. There is no wind. It is just before three in the afternoon, your arms are filled with flowers for tonight, and there ahead through just-cleaned glass, he sits, he does not look up, does not see you. And then pretend there’s a woman sitting across the table from him. She leans forward, her hair is long and straight, like yours, it catches the sunlight, and lingers on his neck, his shoulder. They do not smile. Their hands are on the table with fingers touching at the tips, and you notice that your flowers have no scent.
On entering, you’ll realise that there are no windows, doors or even a roof. There are only walls, angled at times to enclose, stopping to leave openings which bleed from room to room.
The front room encloses a cloudless sky. As you move through the house, the seasons change. Birds nest in a room draped with flowering vines; next to this, falling leaves cover the floor. In another space, the air is so hot, the mortar between the bricks rubs off as powder. Meanwhile, in the centre, the house is flooded. The rain never stops here.
* horseman
Children with feet turned backwards, lost, and waiting with slow smiles that linger cat-like after moving on. These are the dead, we are warned. Keep near the centre of burning pitch, fear the dappled, the mixing of blood, fear what you know. These little ones weave echoes through wailing sobs, so skilful even the mockingbird is put to shame. They hide their faces under strange bonnets, the brims droop like branches from silk-cotton trees, their fingers beckon. You cannot resist.
“…[their] mission is to justify the world… Unawares, they are our saviours.” The Book of Imaginary Beings, Jorge Luis Borges
There is an unease about these simple things, a shadowing of my steps as I grow old. These walls seem thinned, this table, chair and bowl, even my own thoughts feel distant, weighted within. This day has become a stranger, unfolding my skin, cracking open the centres of my bones; it stands as witness, here on a threshold that stretches between my suffering and sins.
I know my way is barred, for I can never go beyond the ordinary. There’s a slow darkness thickening around me, scraping words from my throat, filling my nostrils and mouth, forever burning the lids off my eyes, while from below, I can hear singing, like the sounds of birds.
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