Writing Index

None of his wounds are real. The window panes he smashed hurtling through them, the ceilings that collapsed on his head—they were all virtual. All virtual. All translucent imitations of the real thing.

But so are the streetlamps, the sadness, the light that beams the work of poets and revolutionaries across the world. It’s all real, and yet it isn’t. He’s all real, and yet he’s not. Some days, it’s hard to tell.