Welcome, weary traveller, into this musty tab: take your finger off the mouse wheel, tune your ear to the centrifugal hard drive - it's discus of memory and memory of history. All the places
There was enough room for a sparrow to perch in the waiter’s earlobe. A sparrow, its ears burning, flew in through the back door, bounced on the windows, and then left.
I had boring dreams the night before we met. Seagulls were stunt kites shaped like seagulls. Meanwhile, outside the dream: the roof coughed up slate, a mad gate did its nut, unhinged.