a mortality in twelve revisions
This is not a pitch. Stay off the lawn.
A man walks into a shop. The shop sells books. He can’t leave. He can’t stay. He’s unsure whether he is alive or dead. He is like the people he meets among the books, a character in a book, a fiction.
This is about what it is be alive. It is about a single moment between living and not living, when you understand at a primordial level what life is, a moment that defies words arranged in logical sequences for explication.
one man in his time is an absurdist tale. It’s all real. It’s a true story. Taste it. Feel it. Be consumed. Nothing is what it seems. Beware the subtext. It hunts you silently in the dark passages, between the lines and in what is not spoken. It lies in ambush.
I make no apology for any of it.