the window was closing itself everytime he looked out for a beam of any sort of light.
“i am my own tragedy, he said, but one act is missing.”
i could never really be sure which one.
he carried a rusted knife in his jacket, and said the rust kept oxygen in the wounds it could make.
he spoke four languages and never dwelled on one for more than a few sentences.
he believed variety in all things would keep him from settling too fast.
the day i got too deep he did not say a thing but wrote down every feeling for me to keep as an experiment’s record.
“looming over the dusk of all we sense, bits of rashness, chunks of flesh, a sky torched and bled black, we are not heading anywhere but bottoming faster than a sinking ship”
lower than any place, there always was some other layer.
in his dreams the grass was always brown or grey.
he said grey was when he was dying and brown when he was coming back to life.
he kept test-tubes of blood from more than a hundred animal species.
the most precious one was from an eagle he found, a wing broken, dying.
he had to kill it and never really got over it.
“what’s the point in having wings if you’ve got to die when one breaks?”



images by MARIA MCGREGOR COOKE words by WOLF