Loss

The city never sleeps. Silence would weaken it. When all else fails it talks to itself seamless thrum of machinery dark undertone. It is 00:00 and the full of the night yet to come. A man sits at a window through the dead hours of night, his sleep broken by troubling dreams of a figure in a white landscape. This fragmentary vigil anchors a series of narrative sections in which a dramatic voice - which might well be an interior monologue - gives, first, an account of the man, then addresses ...