I woke up, ants were walking in my ear.
The fire had died out. A slow death for Mister Fire. The stars were
looking down without comment. I listened to the sound of nothing. It
was impossible to go back to sleep. To go to sleep in the desert. To
wander in the desert, asleep. To sleep wander, in the desert. How
long does the wall sleep? Who asks the dying bird? Do you see the
seven stairs? Do you speak in the night? Do you walk in the rain on
Sundays? Will you read the newspaper when it's wet? Will you read the
moon when it's wrong? Have you walked around the mountain? Did I have
a watch? No. No, I didn't. My wrist was bare. Klaus was awake,
slowly putting on his boots.
-Will we be saved?
-Will we be saved?
-If we are found.
I like this story. Very picturesque language.
ReplyDeleteAre you considering writing novels/novellas, or is this just a small exception?
I have no idea where I'm going with this. It's just a writing exercise. Take ten minutes, write whatever pops into your head. You can cross things out and change words but not really rewrite anything. Having a narrative as well is probably a mistake. No, I could never write a novel.
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