tysdag 17. november 2009
Skildring
Outside there was that predawn kind of clarity, where the momentum of living has not quite captured the day. The air was not filled with conversation or thought bubbles or laughter or sidelong glances. Everyone was sleeping, all of their ideas and hopes and hidden agendas entangled in the dream world, leaving this world clear and crisp and cold as a bottle of milk in the fridge.
Frå The Selected Works of T.S. Spivet av Reif Larsen
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I had thought about expanding my notebook into a paper on "Theories of Conservation in Migratory Behaviour of Canada Geese," but I couldn't ever quite manage to squeeze it (even in an extremely extraneous fashion) into an eight grade science report on, say, "The Salinity of Coca-Cola."
SvarSlettIf only I had spotted this half-ladder before, instead of trying to Balkan-gymnast my way up the couplings! The rungs were cold and greasy against my hands. Damn these pulpy cartographer's hands! White as willow wood they had seen more action today than during an entire year at the ranch.
SvarSlettI was a dandy fop no more.