ocean sequence: it's bad religion, to be in love with someone (3/3)
zayn turns 18.
timeline: 2 weeks after zayn starts injecting heroin.
there’s a big affair that takes place in zayn’s mum’s penthouse in london. the dj plays soft upbeat music, there’s a three-tiered cake, catered food, and all sorts of people show up. celebrities and journalists and louis tomlinson.
“who’s that niall’s talking to?” liam is lingering with zayn on the second floor - zayn’s been on edge all night, startling when people approach him. he’s eventually able to sneak upstairs where there are considerably less people. he’d thread slim fingers through liam’s and they’d occasionally sway to the music (it was nice, normal even) - overseeing niall talking at a furiously enthusiastic pace to a slinky brunette in braces.
zayn sweeps a lazy glance down, freezes, and the entire length of his spine stiffens. he looks away quickly, focusing on the champagne flute sweating in his hand instead.
“louis tomlinson. think nialler says he knew him from back in camp.” zayn shrugs, going for nonchalant, but it’s twitchy at best and liam wishes he could read zayn’s mind. they have gotten to be such strangers lately even though they’re strangers that share a bed every night (but liam’s felt that zayn is cosmos away even when they’re sharing breaths), “he’s some sort of writer now.”
“of what?” it doesn’t surprise liam, niall’s perpetual connections. but louis tomlinson does not look like niall’s usual companions (guileless josh or clever aidan or homely liam). niall likes people he can protect and louis tomlinson, well -
louis wears the word ‘worldly’ like it’s an old sweater and he’s tanned and his hair is carefully windswept. his blue eyes are crinkly and clever and he has the pointy chin of a shakespearean villain.
“i dunno. published a book, i think.”
soon after, zayn gets pulled away for photos and liam is left alone nursing his soda and the ache in his side where it still stings from zayn’s tender phantom touches. he leans against the banisters, overlooking into the hall below, marveling at how you can be so close to someone, they start to only exist in your mind.
“like it?” a slow, dark voice asks and liam turns in time to see a skinny boy in a well-cut suit approach. “i know it’s vulgar to discuss about the party while we’re still here but what d’you reckon?”
“s’alright. what do you think?” liam blinks in surprise.
he sways up next to liam, his hands in his pocket. he looks young, liam decides, younger than him even. his drawl is sleepy like he’s reading off the post, “it’s a lie. we’re a bunch of sad strangers dressed beautifully and all the glittering assholes say it’s grand because it’s what they want to see. but we’re sad and alone, standing here, aren’t we, mate? it’s just the pictures make this all seem beautiful, which is a lie, and everyone loves a big fat lie.”
“i’m the big fat liar’s boyfriend.”
“bastard!” he swears affectionately and barks a laugh. it’s riotous and it sounds a bit like a bullet to the chest.
mentally, liam catalogues that he’s quite lovely-looking, smiling at liam in a way that seem to suggest he’d be sweet to unwrap. he has a head of devilish curls and a mouth red as sin. he sweeps his fringe away from his white-pink face and his eyes are huge and lush and pure green.
green like what zayn’s been trying to recreate for weeks on canvas and liam has to stagger back from the impact of the realization. the boy’s grin widens, this one is more menacing; his smiles have layers and edges.
this is harry styles.
“harry styles.” he doesn’t offer his hand, just thins his irises into a silent purr as means of introduction.
the back of liam’s neck is tingling in a dreadful way, the way your body reacts when it’s sensing imminent danger, “liam payne.”
“i know who you are.” harry intones smoothly. liam turns rigid. but harry just goes on smiling mysteriously some more. he explains, “you were in the papers. they say you’re going to race in the olympics.”
liam shifts uncomfortably. he tries not to think about how he’s been lagging on his laps as of late. he tries not to think about the reason for his lagging is standing right in front of him and he’s waiting for the wave of rational anger and jealousy to overtake him but he’s finding it hard to conjure those emotions at the moronic youth (even if the innocence is only for show). instead, he wonders, “how do you know zayn?”
as if they don’t have any idea exactly who each other are.
and the green-eyed boy catches his tongue between his teeth, like he’s biting down on the things he wants to say, studying liam closely before answering in a breezy tone that bypasses the question completely, “i’m here with louis.” and he says ‘louis’ like it were synonymous with ‘god’ or ‘beckham’. then he adds, pointedly and borderline possessively, “i’m his date.”
liam tries to map out the basis of their intertwining relationships with the knowledge of liamandzayn which broke down into zaynandharry, which intrudes into harryandlouis.
he wonders if louis knows about liamandzayn or zaynandharry - liam thinks he must know because louis looks too sharp for his own good (they could all do with a little ignorance in times like this) - and he wonders how louis feels about this black web of lies and play-pretend.
maybe he doesn’t care, liam takes into account that he’s a writer. or maybe he likes it.
“zayn tells me your bloke wrote a book. any good?” my boyfriend said this about your boyfriend, seems to be what he’s trying to communicate but really it feels more like liam’s drawing lines in water.
harry smirks, his response is dutiful, “of course.”
liam isn’t immune to the dark charm of harry styles, nor does he pretend to. he sees the big pretty jaw that juts out proud. he sees the cherub cheeks, the dimples, the long elegant bones that harry styles is comprise of.
(liam wants to know what harry’s bones feel like. it looks like it might feel dense, filled with so much easy loveliness. and tight, like maybe his joints are bound together the way steel is melted and forged.)
“it’s about you, isn’t it?” it’s not so much a question as an observation.
he laughs quietly, shy, “some of me.”
“oh? what did he leave out?”
“the truth.” liam thinks harry is too young to be this sad. too young to be this tired and this jagged and seen so much.
liam doesn’t understand because he’s privileged and trusting and insensitive to human emotion - liam doesn’t know words like fury or revenge or manipulation. they stand in a hanging silence because zayn interrupts unintentionally by cutting the cake and cameras go off from everywhere.
then harry asks him, “how do you like london?” harry seems preoccupied with location, how do you like it here how do you like it there, as if being in a different place could make him a different person.
“dunno much about it. you tell me. you live here, yeah?”
harry gives a wry smile, “louis likes ibiza. we have a house there.” louis. the name is so weighty on harry’s tongue, as if harry had to trade something precious for it. harry’s eyes are starry on his moon face, green like the ibiza shallows. he explains to liam patiently, “and london? london is a lot like a street girl…the problem with london is that she’s gorgeous and darling and she’ll suck your cock until you stop paying her. then you start to see that when you look behind the right lighting, the good manners, it’s cold and filthy, but by then she’ll have left you penniless and…empty.”
“so what were you doing here?” liam can’t keep the judgmental tone out of his voice.
“you know.” harry gestures vaguely with his hand, raising both of his brows in challenge.
liam frowns, “well, no i don’t. were you studying?”
he snickers, genuinely amused, “no. not school.”
“work?” he presses, stepping closer.
“sort of.”
“what sort?” asks liam suspiciously.
harry flashes a perfect line of white teeth, shrugs lazily, “’suppose you can say i was a distributor…”
“distributing wh - ” oh. oh. and there’s a montage of zayn’s blown pupils and zayn’s manic smile and zayn’s shaking hands playing in the back of liam’s head.
liam feels his eyes widen in realization and he didn’t notice how close he was to harry until he counted all the viridian veins that made up harry’s galactic irises.
“look at your bambi eyes.” harry muses, his breath is hot and wet and his mouth is sweet with wine.
“i can’t see my bambi eyes.” liam admits quietly. harry rocks forward on the balls of his feet and liam blinks like a butterfly. harry tilts his head accordingly with a small sweet grin, leans in, when liam murmurs just barely, “where is louis, harry?”
harry stops and lingers there the time it takes liam to run a lap around the track. finally, he pulls back with great force, like drawing himself from orbit, and nods without glancing away from liam, “he’s over there. talking to your bird.”
liam turns to see that zayn had mostly defaulted to what he always does when he’s uncomfortable or shy; indifferent and cool, as niall tagged with louis, retold an event with lots of emotion. zayn bobs along, scanning the room, and stops abruptly at the two of them.
harry waves down. “stay away from london. it’s not for you.”
“you too.”
he smiles sharply at liam, and his smile doesn’t stop growing, “you take care now.”
liam swallows, “i will.”
it’s not until harry’s walking away, taking a flute of champagne from a passing waiter, that liam sees zayn’s watch hanging off his stone pale wrist.
--
timeline: winter break so liam stays the next week in london with zayn.
mornings are weird because zayn’s mum’s penthouse is silent and liam wakes up feeling too wound up without boris and high-pitched chatterings about ballet and french braids. afternoons are better because zayn and him hold hands and walk around town and zayn wears his glasses with his hood pulled over his head. he smiles at liam before kissing him softly by the thames. the grimy overcast of the city paints shades and holes on zayn’s face, swallowing him like a tide, and liam just tries to hold on despite lunar gravity.
they go see the london eye (they don’t ride it because zayn’s afraid of heights). they stand in the hexagonal construct of trafalgar square and liam reads about the history on the plaque while zayn follows the parabola of the fountain with nebulous eyes.
saturday night coming back from the garden museum, liam is dozing in the back of the car, tucked against zayn’s side, zayn’s long fingers carding gently through his cropped hair. the gesture is sweet and mindless, which would usually put liam out like a light, but liam hasn’t ran in a week so his synapses are hyperactive, firing restlessly.
he settles for recounting zayn’s bones - scaphoid, triquetrum, pisiform, capitate, lunate -
“hey.” zayn whispers. liam almost answers back until he realizes zayn isn’t talking to him. “drop me off at the lizard lounge, you know where that is? take liam back to the house. try not to jostle him, yeah?”
the driver hums in affirmation and liam feels the car shift as they make a turn. liam is questioning himself internally; what would happen if he were to wake up, would zayn still leave or would he stay with him and crawl into bed with him?
liam must take too long deciding because the next thing he knows, zayn is laying him horizontal on the seat (it’s warm where zayn’s been sitting). he smooths out liam’s hair one last time before sliding out, and for a second there’s heavy rhythmic music, then the door shuts like it’s pressing all the noise back into a container.
he can feel the tires shifting, picking up speed, and liam is thinking about things he could do tonight to preoccupy himself. he could run a bath, read, find a track, go see niall at his hotel, call his mum. instead, he hears himself call out, “stop the car. please.”
he knows what he hopes to resolve by following zayn (come home, choose me) but he can’t know for sure that it will.
and liam is really not the kind of guy who would be at a place like this at this time of the evening.
but here he is, the lizard lounge, and the terrain is entirely unfamiliar. the music is absolutely pounding. the floor shakes; glitters then disappears with the flashing of strobe lights and stomping feet. everywhere liam looks, it’s a sea of faces. zayn is nowhere in sight.
“you look like you need a drink.” someone says. liam can’t tell place where the voice is coming from but there’s a shot of something purple swirled with pink pushed into his hand.
he downs it.
details get fuzzy after that and liam finds himself leaning back against a post that may or may not be structural with regard to the building, but it certainly feels essential to his maintenance of an upright position. he’s trying to recall his purpose here when he gets approached by a sultry creature that introduces herself as dani. she’s very pretty; not as pretty as zayn but very few people are. dani asks if it’s his first time here.
liam is having difficulties stringing together words, “it’s…i mean, i’ve…i was,” he pushes the heel of his hands into his eyes, scrubbing.
“it’s okay.” dani soothes, patting his shoulder. she keeps her hand there, scratching her acrylic nails in what she probably thought was comforting but it made liam shudder unpleasantly. her smile is blue under the music, “you look tired, love. let’s get you a pick-me-up, yeah?”
in the bathroom everything is sandy marble veined with white. there are long full-length mirrors everywhere, which makes it tough to be discreet. but clearly liam is not the only person led in here to take on fuel.
lots of sniffling going on in the stalls.
dani picks one in the far left, bolting it behind her. liam shakily sits on the toilet, it’s drafty in here and he shivers as his sweat dries on his skin. dani is taking out a compact and a key card from her little purse then a little baggie from her bra.
she shakes out white powder, pushing them into two little bumps. she offers it to liam, along with a thin straw that comes with the cocktails at the bar.
he just stares dazedly for a long moment, shakes his head, “i don’t…no, i’m - i’ve never…”
“first time for everything.” dani prompts very kindly. she puts the compact with the lines on the water box, guiding him by the shoulders towards it, “it’s good stuff. bolivian. they call it the ‘marching powder’.”
“why’s that?”
dani beams; she’s really quite beautiful, “you’ll see.”
liam takes the straw carefully with two fingers. it feels awkward, holding it up to his nose, plugging his other nostril. a voice in his head is warning him that this is an epically bad idea, it’s his own voice, and maybe liam wants to escape that for a little while.
the first line is a disaster because the sensation of something trickling up his airway is foreign and the spot between his eyes burns and he ends up coughing, blowing the rest of it into the air.
dani rubs his back sympathetically, “sharp, huh.” then leads him to the next bump and this one goes better. it still burns but in a nice way that makes him feel warm and blurred and fast on the inside, the way his lungs ache after he’s ran for a long, long time.
“alright, love?” she asks.
and liam blinks against the oncoming high, his voice loose and gooey, “yeah. yeah.”
“excellent. let’s go dance.”
and liam is not much of a dancer but he like the way she moves, the oiled ellipses of her curvy hips and easy smile. and it’s not until liam’s on the dance floor, rhythm pulsing thick with white noise, does he understand the meaning of ‘marching powder’ because his brain at this moment is composed of brigades of tiny bolivian soldiers, tramping to the beat of the bass.
he thinks the music might be latin-themed as well and it’s not just the piranhas cruising in his bloodstream -
“liam?”
- the electrifying buzz of marimbas in his nerves -
“liam!” infinite fingers grab him. he jolts, nearly boxing them in reflex, but it’s zayn (quiff disheveled, eyes wild) but still zayn. zayn shakes his head, holding onto liam’s ears, “lee, what…what are you - ”
i chased after you, is what liam wants to tell zayn, isn’t that what you wanted? but the bolivan soldiers won’t allow for sentimentality.
“oh god. oh god. what did you do? what did you do?” zayn brushes his thumb above liam’s lip to catch the stray cocaine and liam’s silence makes zayn flinch more than if liam’s yelled.
“m’fine.” liam mumbles, putting his hands over zayn’s.
“relax, darling. looks like he’s just having a bit of fun.” a sleepy drawl interrupts and insert on cue: harry styles, all slinkiness, wearing his perpetual smirk.
there’s no fancy suit this time, just a t-shirt dragged down around the neck and a ratty old beanie; but the sight of his clavicle and slim arms make liam feel like he’s seeing too much. liam decides that harry styles wears obscenity well - the way an animal does.
zayn’s jaw clenches and the glare he shoots harry is harsher than what liam recognizes. he hisses through his teeth, “shut. up.” his face softens considerably (his eyes are melted and his mouth slacks) when he takes liam by the arm and tells him, “let’s get you some air, yeah lee?”
dani steps in this time, hip cocked in annoyance, “wait a minute - ”
but zayn snarls, “fuck off.” and dani purses her lips then backs off in surrender.
he lets zayn lead him forward blindly, pausing only when harry squeezes zayn’s shoulder, “don’t take too long. i’ve got shots lined up.” - and liam can tell by the way harry’s knuckles lock, that it’s a hand that’s been broken and the bones are mismatched and rough; he’s been put back together wrong.
then when liam passes, he’s got his tongue between sharp teeth again, his green eyes in slits. he sounds exasperated and perhaps that’s disappointment liam hears too but he can’t be sure, “i told you to stay away.”
and as liam walks away, he thinks dazedly that harry styles’ a python, body wrapped tight around zayn, swallowing everything whole.
-
they go out the back door and zayn props him gingerly against the wall of the alleyway after taking a helpless look at the dirty wet ground. he lights a cigarette as soon as his hands are free, and he’s halfway done when liam starts to feel kind of unsteady.
the euphoric dancing in his head is morphing more into stomping.
he thinks the ground is getting a lot closer before zayn drops his cigarette, slots his hands under liam’s armpits, hoisting him to his feet. he swears in frustration but the undertone of panic overwhelms him, “christ. liam, what were you thinking? dammit, you’re heavy.”
liam can’t talk right now because he thinks he might puke and zayn’s alarm pitches, “lee, you with me?”
in - one, two - out - one, two - in - one, two - out - one, two -
“y-yeah.” he croaks.
“for god’s sake.” zayn closes his eyes in stark relief. he brushes back liam’s sweaty fringe, “you have a meet next week. how are you supposed to run? and your kidney. do you have any idea…” how damaging this is? zayn must be very upset (even his eyebrows look tortured) and his plead is watery, “why did you come?”
liam laughs, his bitterness catches even himself off guard, “why else but for you?”
and zayn mumbles, “you shouldn’t have.” as if liam’s bought zayn a book of poetry or a bouquet of lavender.
“i was - i am…trying to understand.” the bolivians are fighting in his head, marching for more powder.
zayn shakes his head, “you won’t. you can’t. how can you possibly…” zayn chokes so for a silent moment, they just both try to compose themselves, trying to contain the fallen pieces but between the two of them, there are barely any safe words left and liam doesn’t know what to think about that. the words are worn and very vulnerable when zayn speaks, “it’s my burden. s’not yours to bear.”
“but i am bearing it, aren’t i.” the weight has settled deep in liam’s back, wearing into his muscles, and it dragging him down with every step. and it’s so heavy and i’m tired. “i just don’t know what it is.”
“i know it hurts but that’s just the way love is.” somehow, it’s colder in zayn’s arms than being in the biting english weather. zayn kisses his cheek, it’s too familiar liam has to turn away. zayn doesn’t wince but liam feels him shrink back. he begs with boundless lashes, “go home, please, liam.”
“come with me.”
and here is the repeated image of lovers destroyed:
zayn with his back to liam and liam waiting for hopeless absolution and zayn just walks back into the club and leaves liam with nothing but the memory of his bones and his cocaine heart.
there’s the image, and here it is again:
liam sitting on the curb, numb from the cold, pulse crawling under his skin. liam sees sunrise and tanned, elfin hands lifting him into a warm, bright-colored car, his head pillowed by a stack of shakespeare leatherbounds and a musical voice prattering to a beatles song.
--
here’s how olympic trials work.
olympics-eligible athletes are very categorically separated into a two-tier system based on performance: a standard and b standard.
if two or more athletes in a given trial event have met the a standard, then the top three athletes with an a standard will make the olympic team - regardless of whether they finish in the top three of the trial race (meaning: if that year’s runners happen to all meet standard, only the fastest three can compete).
complex. here’s more.
if fewer than two athletes in a trial final have met the a standard, then only one athlete - the best finisher with an a or b standard - will make the olympic team. if an even has no a qualifier, the trial’s highest placing b will go to the olympics. a b-standard athlete does have a chance but mostly likely only if an a-level athlete is knocked out by an injury.
you must meet at least the b standard in order to be considered and the difference between a and b are a matter of .1 milliseconds.
so it’s fair to say liam knows how quickly one’s life can change all in the span of .1 milliseconds.
liam knows to measure by every breath; knows how to ‘make it count’.
in - one, two - out - one, two -
--
timeline: monday night 11pm, bradford; liam waits for zayn to come home. he puts on chopin’s nocturne opus 9 no. 2.
“hey.” zayn comes through the door of his room and blinks at the sight of liam standing by the window. he seems surprised but smiles shyly, dumping his monogrammed duffle on the floor. liam forces his lips to curve in response and zayn pulls on the cuffs of his leather jacket to shrug it off. “thank for waiting up. what’s the time?”
“about midnight.”
“christ. my head’s in two places.” usually this is the part zayn wraps his arms around liam’s waist and kisses the back of his neck but liam is warning him off with a wary look. zayn twitches nervously, “how’s track?”
“good. ongoing.” not so good, actually - niall’s been kicking his ass. liam takes a measured step forward, “i think we - ”
zayn jumps and interjects wildly, “how ‘bout some tea, hm? i’ll start a kettle.”
he’s walking briskly to the door but liam’s at least fast enough to hold it close before he gets there, “no. zayn…”
“what?” zayn tries for defensive and when zayn is defensive he crosses his arms over his sternum like a chestplate, fingers digging into his own shoulders. he picks his gaze up from liam’s sneakers, jeans, hoodie, up to his eyes and zayn is inconsolable. he asks meekly, “why are you dressed?”
“because i think i might be about to leave you, and i didn’t want to be wearing a sleeping gown.”
he already did the washing up this morning, carefully separated what was his and what was zayn’s but so much has been shared, traded, swapped so many times that he can’t tell. he threw away his toothbrush that sits next to zayn’s in the bathroom, packed up his books about anatomy and french and great expectations.
at one point, he thought to himself: how did it all get here? how did these shimmying atoms of his end up in the nuclear space that is zayn?
where does liam end and zayn begin?
zayn is making broken noises that sound like he’s tearing out of his body, his armor still on lock and liam can’t stay for this. he feels ancient and too wracked with grief to properly cry out. he fists his hands like he’s ready to box because he’s never been restricted from touching zayn before and he’s not sure what the proper procedure is.
“i’m sorry.”
zayn rocks his head back and forth, “what are you sorry for?”
“everything.” but everything doesn’t even begin to cover it.
“why didn’t you do this before?” there are faint purple lines on zayn’s arm - scarred veins; track marks.
“dependency. and cowardice.” liam answers quietly. zayn shudders. “at first, it was because i needed you as much as you needed me. but then you didn’t anymore. and then it was because i still needed you.”
he’s practiced these responses in his head but nothing can prepare him for the hole in his chest from zayn’s wrecked eyes and zayn’s wet sobs.
“then why are you doing it now? is it because you don’t love me anymore?”
liam feels like he might sink under the sadness. he says very, very softly, “no. it’s because i do love you…i love you so much…and you don’t even understand it.”
“how can i?!” zayn lashes out, his hands shaking so badly by his side, he slips twice before grabbing onto the corner of the dresser. “how do you expect me to when you’re swim captain and head of the class and running in the fucking olympics and i’m just a fuck-up with nice cheekbones, yeah? and i…i think about it all the time. how you are everything that’s good about me. and how long it would take you to realize it.”
and it’s easy to forget that zayn has a whole mountain of insecurities and self-loathing filled to the brim, reaching towards everest because liam is usually cautious to keep the demons at bay.
he doesn’t know when he stopped.
“zayn - ” liam blanches, “why didn’t you - i would’ve…”
zayn just snorts, looking away at a spot on the floor, “so much of our relationship is built on the implied. and when shorthand’s not enough, we had forgotten how to speak to each other.”
how would you like me to tell you, liam thinks desperately. does he say it in sighs from his tired lungs or scream it across the space that’s separating them? should he kneel down with hands clasped together and string together a phrase that begins with ‘will’, ends sweetly with ‘stay here forever’, the ‘you’ whispered reverently in between the two halves like a prayer? does he carve it to leave scars or should he swallow it and hope that when zayn looks into his chest, the letters are white like bones in an x-ray?
“is that why…harry?” liam doesn’t want to know the answer but he needs the truth to justify all that he’s doing, “do you love him?”
“it felt good to be needed. to know we were both going nowhere fast together. mindless. numbing.”
“could you leave him?”
“could you give up running?” and liam can’t because liam is filled with self-righteousness and moral obligations and liam didn’t come from wealth or a famous name so there’s the need to prove himself worthy of his fancy education and leadership and zayn. but he can’t pretend, even to himself, that this is entirely about zayn.
his identity is inextricably linked to the track now. if he loses that, he loses his strength, his value, his sense of entitlement. and if he loses all those things, he isn’t liam payne. and everyone in bradford knows that zayn malik loves liam payne.
if i don’t run, you won’t love me, you’ll see.
but he won’t delude himself into romanticizing this. he wants zayn plus - zayn plus gratification, zayn plus admiration, zayn plus a gold medal because he’s earned it, dammit.
so maybe liam can be selfish.
they won’t lie but they can’t face the truth so then there’s just nothing left to say. and liam can do nothing but move out the door because he’s already got his response. he knew it before he asked it. thinking back, it was childish of them, liam supposes, to think that they can endure anything just because they love each other more than anyone else ever can, to think that love could be enough.
“please, liam. please.”
and here is the repeated image of lovers destroyed:
liam walks out of the room, a hollow man (his belief that zayn and him were always meant to be shattered by insecurity and glory), and leaves zayn crumpling within himself.
and some say the world will end in fire. some say in ice. but liam thinks:
this is the way the world ends. this is the way the world ends. this is the way the world ends. not with a bang but with a whimper.
--
now let’s go back to the beginning.
suppose that people live forever.
the population of the world splits into two, interestingly: the laters and the nows.
the nows and laters have one thing in common. with infinite life come an infinite list of relatives. generations never die, all alive and offering advice. sons never escape from the shadows of their father. no one ever comes into his own.
when a man makes a decision, he feels compelled to talk it over with his parents and grandparents and great-grandparents, ad infinitum, to learn from their errors.
where every action must be verified a million times, life is tentative.
bridges thrust halfway over bodies of water and then abruptly stop. buildings rise nine stories high but have no roofs. the grocer’s inventory of crisps, salt, cod, and beef change with every change of mind, every consultation.
sentences go unfinis -
engagements end just days before weddings. and on the boulevards, people turn their heads and peer behind their backs to see who might be watching.
such is the cost of immortality. no person is whole. no person is free. neither a later or a now.
over time, some have determined that the only way to live is to die. in death, a man is free of the weight of the past. these few souls dive into lake constance or hurl themselves from monte lema, ending their infinite lives.
in this way, the finite has conquered the infinite, millions of autumns have yielded to no autumns, millions of snowfalls have yielded to no snowfalls, millions of lovers have yielded to none.
lovers make history: here are the blankets, layer on layer, down and down.