"Closure is, as in any fiction, a suspect quality, although
here it is made manifest. When the story no longer progresses, or when
it cycles, or when you tire of the paths, the experience of reading it
ends. Even so, there are likely to be more opportunities than you think
there are at first. A word which doesn’t yield the first time you read
a section may take you elsewhere if you choose it when you encounter
the section again, and sometimes what seems like a loop, like memory,
leads off again in another direction. There is no simple way to say
this."
13.20 pm
On the Stockholm subway I stand gazing at a wordless poster showing a
green frog robot in a white space surrounded by coloured balls, while a
woman stands staring at me.
16.35 pm
On the way back home, back on the subway, two small children,
accompanied by their mother, come onto the platform carefully carrying a
small rickety stretcher between them, the one at the front walking
backwards, taking care not to stumble. And on the stretcher sits what
looks like a bag of sugar. They weave their way along the platform
through the waiting crowd and gradually disappear from view, and I just
watch it for the few seconds it is there, I just watch it and in my mind
I don’t even ask why, I don’t try and interpret the scene, I don’t even
wonder if its real. I just watch it. This, I feel, is now my job.
More and more I just want to be the friendly echo of such moments, the
writer of reverse histories, of platforms.
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