A feature by Jan Wilm

The dreams are dead, there’s only yesterday. And yet, the snow lies before me, and you lie behind me. In my deserted city, like a fiction you lie behind me. Before me, ahead of me, in an airport-sized edifice on a hill in Los Angeles, on paper, there lies the snow. Without wanting to be there, I’m there, and there is now here. Without wanting to be here, I’m here, punished under the sky-high palm trees, my home at home in ruins, shattered, driven into the ashes. Having to go to summer camp on Monday morning when your parents yelled at each other on Sunday night. . .