"The stray corpse of a snowman sinks into the mud. The rain has stolen his face and a testimony melts in his mouth"
I have spent the afternoon in 1961, and out on the quad I think I witness Adolf Eichmann building a snowman.
I stand amongst a wreath of antlered trees. The hills, cave-coloured, blue with rain, seem to sway like kelp.
I dreamt about my uncle's death last night. Not about my uncle. He was already dead when the dream started.