Bokelskere.no

[...] the old man, our stoker and watchman, whom no one among us called by his name because no one among us knew that name, since it made no sense to learn and remember this name because our stoker would not be able to hear and respond to this name as he was deaf and mute [...]

I oil the oarlocks with thick dark river water— I’m going beyond the second river bend, to the Land of the Lonely Goatsucker, the bird of good summer. The trip is neither short nor long; I’ll compare it to the movement of the barely shining needle sewing up a cloud shredded into pieces by the wind.