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Show Motherlunge a novel 101 15. Wherever You Go, Ontology The self is a corrugated shell, semi-hard and molded to your back, as ugly as expensive luggage. When you travel, it hurts more when you get there; it's bent a bit now, dented. Or else there's no such thing. The past clicks shut behind you like the clear door of a shower stall. You step forward and are suddenly drenched in the future, new as nakedness. Which is it? The only way to know, my darling, is to go when you get your chance. Go, go, go, and remember me. The Nile is a river in Egypt, and it flows through the reeds and papyrus, and each second it is renewed. It carries the baby in a basket of grass into someone else's arms. |
