We decode life and call it science. We encode our findings and call them stories, said Frank. Stories are how we understand. Julia kept drawing in her notebook the bat hanging from the ceiling of the attic while Gaia sat on the
Word after word the hero disappeared behind the stories, until one day he felt his journey complete. He had lost his identity to become everything. This thought distracted him and he stopped for a moment, his audience openmouthed.
When the hero returned he was changed. He was older than people remembered, his beard was short and white and, more than anything, he had become kind. He never was kind in his youth, his intelligence unsettling to others, his
Ekaterina danced tirelessly in the FishTrain halls, days and nights, alone and in front of hundreds, in summer and winter to a music she alone heard. Looking at her Julia heard the music too.