as my grandpa was scrolling on the internet, he thought of robinson crusoe and his shipwreck. the journey of this man in reverse seemed like a greater selfwreck to him: from a deserted island towards the allthepeople-land.
my grandpa could never fully reveal the identity of the devil’s entity.
he knew that it was a three-pronged stabber and the ingredient of many a formulas for distress. the essence of every detail. the bulging eye with no yearning to dream.
he sleeps, but not just with anyone – my grandma uttered.
a key or manipulative politics.
the untruth is not always a lie, and not that the truth is never a lie, they are two women neighbours who sit, sip coffee and stick their (middle) finger in the coffee sediment, and if they fail to see a way in the fingerprint, then there is no way.
