Nicole tells him to cut it out, and I try to keep my mouth shut. But, during one particularly hairy turn, Nicole and I both freak out. But to me, in this Balkan moment, it's too late. We exist at irreconcilable ends of a sliding scale of passive and active, observation and participation. It's not until I spend a couple of weeks in Amsterdam that my fatalism begins to fade.
Humans are more pliable than their ideas.
What had, against a landscape of war and destruction, seemed irreconcilable, begins to bleed together into the platitudes of taste. From the calm of my private life, with movies plotting their course through my veins like so much junk, I can safely see the differences between us as the spice of life. All rights reserved.