Talking of Plato, she says that if his theory of divine possession is true, then even this cake-to-be is already done, and what if four hours was turned inside out like a plastic bag, and what if a pill had the power of speech, and what if Mondays could paint or, god forbid, sing? Behind her, out of the shop window, the evening traffic pales to white glue, shakes, falls onto the mattress, as i say, what is that? and the landlady knocks on the ceiling with a broom handle. Orwell is her favorite dog’s name, the Paps of Jura her favorite drink, somebody else’s life her life.

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