NO SOUND

February 28, 2010




It snowed on Friday to the point that even making it to the bakery felt like a treat-meriting feat. Almond croissants and a slate-colored sky are not a recipe for melancholy but the following seemed appropriate.


Remember the sound? Of bullets in dead bodies? Like a shot into a rotten leg, a wet thick leg. All a man is: wet leg of blood. Remember the flap of a turn curtain in a blasted window, fragment whispering in that awful breeze: never, forever, never, forever. - Michael Shaara

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