A thank-you note to Munch
On the flight back to Detroit, two kids in the front rows cried for about half an hour. It was a toxic pairwise competition, as if they were screaming to cut open their throats in order to swallow some grainless sadness as much as they could. Strangely I was not annoyed, and I listened to their cries as the plane slowly slid away. How could someone with almost no memories cry so hard and so honestly; how come we, young and ignorant and hearing constant screams days and nights, yet are unable to let out a single cry? For the first time something burst inwardly and backwardly. Perhaps the snow climbed on us as we age. The silence dawned on us as we age.