The cold of the gun cannon digs into my cheek and my helmet is fastened too tight so I can hardly open my mouth, but these are details of the individual and no longer matter. I cannot be me right now, not for this dance. There is here no I.
My brother is splayed on the couch watching the Euro and says he doesn’t feel like telling me what happened with his bag yet.
My hairdresser recently compared the new Swiss COVID restrictions to the Holocaust. So let's talk.
There was an old man who lived in my village who wore a flannel coat year round, with a faded green cap squashed onto his bald head. He had a thick grey moustache and drove a long-bedded truck.