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March 1, 2011

“The passerby had their eyes half closed. Everyone wore his mask. Children greeted each other with masks painted on their faces; they smiled at each other’s smiles growing in this emptiness, wanting to resemble the reflections, whole generations had fallen asleep. Apart from them, mother and I ambled, guiding our shadows over a keyboard of paving stones. we passed the chemist’s large jar of pain. we passed houses, sinking, windows and all, into their gardens. Overlooked beyond the margin of time an endless day. An enormous last day of life. The sleeping garden screamed the garden turned in it’s sleep, it’s back rising and falling as it breathed. August had expanded into enormous tongues of greenery. August painted The air with a mop. Hours pass in coughs. half-naked, half-animal, half-shameless, half-hoarse with shouting, mother was lying in a patch of yellow in the still broken only by the ticking of a clock, motionless like a glove from which a hand had been withdrawn. the silence talked, the bright silence argued, time filled the room, the bright silence rising from the clock submerged in the green and blind with age, we rediscovered life, the quality of blood, the secret of private time, the silent sighs the comings and goings, we stepped into the shadow and did not fight against it; clumsy gestures revealed us. we were not embarrassed.”


the first sixteen pages of Tree of Codes, by Jonathan Safran Foer.


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