·
Reason eludes her, replaced, it seems, with a metaphor that’s not her own. She hears Bowie singing, his voice low and strangely soothing. He’s in a parking garage in Berlin, crashing his car over and over and over again, and she thinks, ‘Yeah, that’s exactly how I feel.’
·
It’s as if a fine veil has fallen over his eyes, separating him from the scene in front of him, leaving him aware of his isolation, aware that this little scene is only something he can look upon. He cannot walk into that kitchen and take his place at the table.
·
The path down to the sea falls without end and is strewn with tiny stones that slip under his feet and cause him to slide with almost every step, as if the ground itself is doing its best to ensure he never makes it onto the sands, nature aware somehow of his foolishness.
·
The memories feel like glimpses. Vague, snatched moments that unravel, so that the pattern of the thing – the form and shape you would call a life, she supposes – disappears. All she’s left with is a string of unconnected events. Not even that. Just a sound. Just the sound of him.
·
Seeing her, one of the horses returned her gaze, as if all it needed to do to understand her was look her in the eye. They stared at one another for a moment, until the deep black of its eye made her shiver and turn away
