mánudagur, júní 09, 2014


She hasn't been here. Why hasn't she been here? I'm not certain.

She's seen sad things: a squirrel, unaware his hindquarters have been crushed flat by a tire, goes about his business gathering nuts and climbing trees. He is so light that he can do this with only the use of his forelimbs, not weighed down by knowledge of his certain death from sepsis, kidney failure, the obvious. Extraordinary, ordinary animal. Then again, his spine was probably severed: he feels nothing. He isn't there the next day.

This is not the reason. I do not know the reason.

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