No, you’re the cutest ever.
Narrative from a recent conversation with Slava
Fast forward. Night. Libya, or some similar unfriendly place. How about Sudan? Yeah, Sudan. I had convinced him to walk along the shoreline. Some part of him remained, I could tell. Some shadow long since forgotten by everyone but me. A memory, maybe, of drawing in the woods behind the highrises. Maybe even of walking along the beaches in Sudan. Something there, something mine, and mine alone. Signatory.
He said something about the climate. Something profound. I was thinking about the sand getting into my sneakers, long since muddled by the debris of a country imploded. Politically tarnished, and also I think I stepped in some pudding. Hans Airwalk rolling in his grave.
I know, I know. There’s no way that’s pudding.