Saturday, April 26, 2008



I open a jar of preserves, spread a bit on a hunk of rough bread. The tartness takes me back to the past summer, translucent red berries on scatterred bushes. It seemed ages ago, on the far side of a very harsh winter of pain and loss. Back when there were cities and central heating and cars and grocery stores, I’d hardly noticed winter here; it was more just a lack of summer. I used to run with a crowd that railed against the ills of modernity. I wonder how many of them are alive. A cruel thought. But still...

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