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“but you don’t want to leave, not now, everything is just right: the threads of time are woven perfectly, nothing should tear the fabric apart.”

“as if the hand would crumble into yours if you squeezed too hard, would decompose into dust, into tiny particles that couldn’t be reassembled, pulverising, leaving nothing behind.”

“you hold up your hand, gather up the red flowing our of you faster and faster. driven by the heat. heart line, head line, life line, fate: river systems on your skin, capillary forces pulling. […] a dark red body is forming, from you, outside of you. you collect the drops in the hollow of your hand, collect yourself. grasp, grasp drops. you step over the riverbank, your sea, your ocean.”

“the air more like water than air: it slows you down, every movement is an effort, and yet: weightlessness. you feel every blade of grass on your bare feet, a child’s feet - night grasses. you cross the stream on stones sticking up out of the water, its icy tongues licking at your sweaty skin; salt, water, sea.”