by Kallirroe Agelopoulou
There were holes in his head where certain memories should lie. Any attempt to recreate events, any attempt to watch the movie in his mind and it became some foreign, art-house existentialist exercise. Without subtitles.
Spared from the ravaging, only bits and pieces. There was a woman, really young. Her face blurred, but the color of her hair unmistakable. The yellow of the brightest sun. Standing in the middle of a cropped field, the endless blue above shielding her whole body, she was the sun. Read more