Rising, the volcano ashes, the sea levels, the fog in a dreaded morning walk. I can smell each of the season’s stereotypes. The public’s chatter in the stores, the back and forth of the clerks, the tapping of the cards in the POS.Memory is a spy dressed in black, walking a la pointe becoming undistinguishable…
Fatherless, motherless sons & daughtersWhere are the unknowns to love us?I am curious about their privacies. The thickness of their masks. The pace in which they walk, the tonality of their voice, who they are when no one is watching.Are they aware of the countdown? I am no angel to sound the trumpets.I come with…