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Kindle Edition
Expected publication December 1, 2026
It was then that I understood who Sasha was: he was someone who presented himself at the radical fringes of the institution he nonetheless depended on for his identity and self-esteem.
Not the life I had once imagined in a grand metropolis where I might self-actualise; not Milan, Sao Paulo, Los Angeles. Instead, I envisioned a simple life, a village life in which I could tend the garden, read in the shade, work the lunch shift at a little local tavern. Then, as the sun retreated each evening, I would rest my hand on my hip, look out at the horizon, smell the wild thyme, listen to the cacophony of insects, and watch the sky turn mauve, fuchsia and crimson on the horizon.
Veins of black lined the amber exterior. The building looked wet, rotten, amphibious.
Perhaps we were not after all mere products of post-modern tea-towel circulation; I could still be moved by the world.
My mother had loved me without me having to alter myself, and this experience had spoiled me for conditional love, the proleterian labour of adult romantic entanglements. Yet in Sasha I recognised this same quality: he could love without inflicting expectations on his beloved. He didn't intercede, reprimand or judge.