Chapter 1. Birth in the triangle of blue sea.
If the first impulse was to build an art turbine, the second was more embryological. The third a pale afternoon ghost fading out over wisteria longings. Nothing between his birth and the previous molecules played a part. His mother, shrieking nihilist amendments into her growing claustrophobia, was too emotionally unwieldy to do the best of jobs with him. Causal linearity was merely a proclamation of collapsing. In the beginning, frankly, everyone rusted. Slowly.
‘I was happy if a day ended and I was able to sense not only the outside world but also my own activities,’ his mother confides over another martini.