barcelona, spain. august 2008
this is the part in the novel when it just starts to end, when the someone gets their feet on the ground, becomes something more than ordinary but something no longer caught up in conflict. resolutionless (as they are, must be, in a real true novel) the pages fade out into small words, until their existence is as simple and blank and beautiful as the extra pages in the binding.
the volatility and danger remain, and all the extraneous- those things you've now learned after reading through that 600th page- fall away.
and, just almost, that person is so concentrated on the substance, the fiber, that they forget that there's an opposite - all the filler - so that they glimpse what might be their only chance at that iconic, idyllic automatic life. just the important. just the pulp.
