As soon as I turned up, our life became a search for ways to escape from each other, to die away from each other by painless increments. And this? Why write these words at all, why bother? Perhaps because we both envy those who find escape in writing, who can push themselves off the banks of everyday life and let the stream of writing find them. Because that’s our dream – a dream because it would require a unity, a concentration we don’t have. We write, one or the other of us writes, in spurts, in barely conscious spastic movements. But as soon as I summon you we’re doubled up, as soon as you put pen to paper or touch the keypad we’re split apart. You’re no longer yourself, throbbing man: life is elsewhere, and we’re right back in the moment when you said goodbye to your father and walked down the concrete path, between the dark-green thistle bushes, to your new room, to a different life. When I turned up… Yet in another sense we write all the time, in another sense our life is made of writing, has been nothing but writing since that moment, meaning that only writing can mend it. We write: we gesture at escape with the same tools that lock us together.


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