I’m living in Paris once more, once more a suitcase and a short-term teaching job at Paris VIII. It’s true I asked the same question and I probably broke the i-Ching and things will never make sense again, because the question was exactly “will things ever make sense again?” “I’ll never do this again for you. Never again,” he says. “I’m sorry,” I say. “You have some thinking to do, bro.” “What did I get, again?” “恆,” he says.
New fiction by Fernando Sdrigotti.