Someone’s life story

The son of a Partisan and a pianist, I was born in Ljubljana, Slovenia on January 31, 1946, the same day the new Yugoslav Constitution came into effect. I died on November 17, 1989, whilst working as a television journalist in the state media, when a large, colourful chunk of the Berlin Wall – dislodged by an enthusiastic and probably intoxicated young Westerner in a Bruce Springsteen t-shirt – fell and hit me on my head.

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Stinking and tired he hauled Christopher from the river then, grabbing the nearest vine, he tied it about his waist and started to search frantically for Emily. The waters were raging as the rain poured down as she swept past him screaming and clinging for life on a splintered remnant of the boat he had built them.

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Mirror Words

Finally, hours later, when I was able to touch the soft white skin of her beautiful cheek, I felt dead eyes searching me with questions. I had loved her completely but found myself holding her lifeless body by the neck wondering who had written the words on the mirror.

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At night, when I look out into the shining blackness, I wonder if there is life in the Universe. The freezing Argon makes my face tubes squeeze in time to the flapping of migrating sky motes.

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Night Snack

Late one night I saw a man standing on the corner outside my house. He watched for a while as moths flitted about the streetlamp high over his head until suddenly his tongue lashed out whip-like and grabbed one, pulling it quickly back into his mouth.

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