After a few weeks away, my entry this week comes from Julian Barnes' The Sense of an Ending
I remember, in no particular order:
--a shiny inner wrist;
--steam rising from a wet sink as a hot frying pan is laughingly tossed into it;
--gouts of sperm circling a plughole, before being sluiced down the full length of a tall house;
--a river rushing nonsensically upstream, its wave and wash lit by a half dozen chasing torchbeams;
--another river, broad and grey, the direction of its flow disguised by a stiff wind exciting the surface;
--bathwater long gone cold behind a locked door.
This last isn't something I actually saw, but what you end up remembering isn't always the same as what you have witnessed.Ain't that the truth!
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