It is actually a story that cannot be told. You would laugh at it, push it aside as a mere fantasy. Too horrific to be real, or true, or even manageable for your mind. If we were talking about a dog, the story still would scramble your brain. Maybe we should use the dog, just to soothe the sharp edges of a tale that exists of a thousand tales that cannot be true.

His name sounds like ‘plunder’. His teeth are gone, his dignity has failed him, he sleeps wherever he is tolerated.

She cannot stand the rotating lights of the garbage truck when it passes in the street every Monday morning. It remembers her of the things she cannot forget, although she tries harder by the day. It is the same with the sound of metal.

Originally, he is not from here.
She is neither.
He used to have a home on the other half of the world.
She used to live nearer, still two thousand miles far.

It has little to do with her new surroundings. It is her inner world that is tightly closing in on her. Fragile tissue that seems to become tougher over the years. It is all an illusion of course. And still she is sure that were she to stick a needle in it, it would be a much harder task than before. Callous on your soul creates curious outcomes. There are stories enclosed which once must have cost tears. They’ve dried up since decades and refuse to show themselves nowadays.

In his own house he fears everyone who’s visiting him. Safety is a feeling that long has left his mind. That’s why you can step over him. He won’t hold it against you.


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