Blue-striped sticky worms have a good deal in common with us. Anne and I are both untroubled by the whistle of arrows, and eat raw tripe with trembling hands. We also both rely on the sound of rusted water-wheels turning when running down a steeply inclined plane. Differences? I think that disease has its roots in the sudden interruption of a breathless goodbye. She doesn’t.
running the whole length of the horizon...