I do not have the stomach to even kill that black widow, her body so shiny in the sun. I cannot release whatever is inside her.
The engorgement of portraits: white man after white man after white man on white horses over a mountain of dead bodies in battle. That was the final straw for me.
According to truth or legend, one day a tourist and his wife come to the bar. She has an uneasy stomach, or perhaps she has caught too much sun.
Maybe we just want to be counted, as in: visible.
I am seven when the world turned incomprehensible for the first time.
The idea of one person owning every single bird of a specific species within any territory was wild to me, but I was far from home, and racing against the rain as we made our way to Buckingham Palace.