The house smelled musty, it was cold, still and empty. Your chair was where it always had been, the magazine rack and the reading lamp standing by in case you came back.
I saw an Inuit man, he was standing in the snow with his back to me wearing a sealskin parka. People were approaching him and he was giving them things, more and more people came
He kept returning to the wreckage, not because he liked it but because it was so strangely peaceful there. The worst had happened and life had gone on, the breeze still nagged
Hatred I hate you. I hate you with a passion the colour of pus. My friends tell me that it’s pointless to hate, that it doesn’t go anywhere and that love is better.
It’s still dark outside. I can hear my friend coughing in the room next door. Yesterday he was up all night. Neither of us have so many years left to live, but you don’t have to