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I am often lost in all the dimensions of time, that the past often feels nearer than the present and I often fear the future has already happened.
Love explodes near her like a war but she never admits she started it.
My boundaries were made from sand so she reckoned she could push them over, and I let her.
Pretending not to notice and pretending to forget are my special skills.
Sewing was her way of keeping things together. It pleased her to mend something that seemed beyond repair.
'You smell like the ocean', she whispered. 'Like a starfish.'
It wasn't the worst kind of pain. In a way, it was a relief.
There is never nothing beneath something that is covered.
If anthropology is the study of humankind from its beginning millions of years ago to this day, I am not very good at studying myself. I have researched aborginal culture, Mayan hieroglyphics and the corporate culture of a Japanese car manufacturer, and I have written essays on the interrnal logic of various other societies, but I haven't got a clue about my own logic.
My love for my mother is like an axe. It cuts very deep.