In the faintly orange air of a late afternoon I sit at a tiny metal sidewalk café table across from another.
I ran into Julian again. I remember the book he comes from but not how he migrated from it.
From one plane in the world to another.
Fictional characters are as real as you are.
Each of us is embedded in a time-space. Each carries embeddedness like a fan. When they overlap transparent mosaics form in the air.
Julian and I talk about lines of flight.
Lines of flight?
The desire to become someone else by being somewhere else.
The desire to find the place that will save you from yourself.
I look at the mottled sky from which everything seems suspended.
Every encounter with Julian is exactly the same. .
Exactly the same?
Each time the realization takes shape beneath the surface of the conversation.
A series within a series that makes seconds seem smothering