I woke up this morning thinking about Turkish drummers; it didn't take long -- I don't know much about Turkish drummers -- but it made me think of Germany, and the guy who sold me cigarettes who'd been in the Afghan secret police, who made the observation that it's hard to live. Then I was reminded of the proprietor of a Vietnamese restaurant in Quebec, who used to be head of the secret police in Da Nang -- and it occurred to me I was thinking about all this stuff to keep from thinking about something else -- isn't that just what secret police are all about?
-- Bruce Cockburn

"You fool. As if it matters, how a man falls down."
"When the fall is all that's left, it matters."
-- The Lion In Winter

January • February • March • April • May • June

(full story: html • pdf)

(notes & credits)

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(broken wings)


(This story contains: dubcon, death, physical injury, physical injury that managed to even make me shudder, violence, murder, psychological horror, that creepy feeling down the back of your spine that comes from watching someone go quietly insane, the relics and remnants of too many spy novels, and the entirety of Western Canon put in a blender set to frappé. Beware of fucking snakes.)

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