Influx Press

Forty years from now there will be nothing left of us. Our memory and the photographs and the recollections of those who disappeared will all be gone, like the notes from a cello in the ruins of an old house.

and a heartbeat is audible. It might be hers, it might be mine.

She has the most beautiful eyes in the world, the colour of boreal mist, and a pain I can never allay.

We make love because that’s what we have to do.

God, she’s beautiful when she laughs. I should fall more often.

It’s not that his stories bore me, more like he’s trying too hard to fill up the silences, patching the cracks in my life with little snatches of his own.

But we forgot one fundamental truth: bombs sound loudest in the desert.

We tell ourselves lies in order to survive.

Forget the past, love each other in the present moment. Cut off from the world, we’ll conceal our scars beneath the sleeves of our false hopes.

In this town that’s a foreign land to us, we’ll learn to invent those truths that provide the greatest succour.