It's not exile, homes and families behind us, where we meet. It happens anywhere, now: a stateless state of no name, quietly seceding from the crumbling empires round us, without stamps or Eurovision entries. No-one does it with a rough guide in a week. You inhabit it or nothing. Like this: in a pavement cafe you blink and you seem to surprise them, the crowd, all its separate faces at once, coming out of solution like crystals, like a rush of starlings or the breeze that lifts the canvas awning now and dents your cappuccino froth with a crisp little sound. And that's it: between breaths, just between you and me as if; yes, QED. You are received. This is the freedom of the city, and the key to the kingdom, and its borders ripple outwards like a frill of breaking wave onto flat sand, a wavering line already fading leaving spume-flecks high and dry,
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5/28/2025 9:35:19 AM # 1.0.0