A great pig in a single velvety boot has escaped from the abattoir. 

He walks pede claudo down the main street. Children chase him, pinning varicoloured arrows to his hide – his eyes are holes for the draining and storing of blood. 

I gave her a bias cut dress, which fitted her so close, just like one’s life should. He said this in his serious and engaging manner, in his deep and lonely voice.

I brought her bacon, so finely sliced it was translucent. I offered her five husbands, all with ringing endorsements, with milky sweet eyes.

She is dry and indifferent, as unblinking as the full moon. She reminds him of his death.

I told her: the dead are the only proof of anything. Forgetting, however, is the easiest thing in the world. We do it without thinking.