We’re sitting at the table, finishing dinner and we talk about insurance.
I think that the insurance you have might be inadequate.
“I’m hardly ever ill.” You say.”It’s not worth paying an extra fee for.”
“Don’t worry.” You add. “I’ll get extra insurance before I’m fifty.”
I look at you and a gap in time opens.
“I’ve got time.” You say. ”Still more than 10 years to go.”
I’m not sitting at the table in our house, I have been sucked away in a black hole of fear.
“What’s ten years.” I think. “And then another ten. Sixty. And another ten.”
I wish I could draw you into this black hole with me, this hiding place against time.
Libellés : death, fear, time