It is a quiet afternoon. Mild. Grey sky. Wednesday. I move between the rooms of the flat. Through walls, beneath ceilings, past chairs. Gently voyaging across the idle sea of post-noon hours. Thinking. Watching the men at work in the street below who are doing something to the kerbs and across the street in the derelict buildings where they’ve taken off the roof, exposing an old matrix of deep red beams.
Somewhere in world, I think, there must be a pilot, lying dead in tall grass. I wonder how he got there. The flying goggles make him look alien. The brown leather of his flying jacket makes him difficult to see in the landscape. He has no moustache. Ants are crawling on his black skin.
Nothing is happening . There is a church up the road that has bouncers. Someone I know said to me, ‘religion is very important to people here’, but the way they said it they may as well have said ‘religion is very important to these people.’ Because that’s what I heard.
I’ve found the plane. It’s smashed and tangled amongst the limbs of a tree. One of the wings hangs, only a couple of feet from the ground, shifting a little in the breeze, like a rope swing. The plane looks like a fly in a swat. The pilot lies in the grass, a good twenty feet from the tree. I imagine that he died after being tossed from the plane, rather than on impact with the tree. I think this because if he had died on impact, before being ejected, his body would be in more of a heap rather than lain out flat, as it is.
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