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The room a little ventricle on the second floor, tucked away. Cut with a surgeon’s precision, a sudden dark corner of a museum of lapping light and mute waves. There, the open heart beats on film. A red bed is … Continue reading
At around three A.M. we started building. We had the wheels and gearshifts from a dozen bikes, a whole spool of gauge six wire, and the pointless determination of the casually mad.
It sat in the middle of Jonny’s bedroom. We’d pushed his mattress up against one wall and carefully moved each of his army of terra cotta peace activists to the kitchen. A single bulb hung there, casting a Gandhi-shaped shadow into the room.
I sat down and began to pedal. It was fast at first, but as the wire wound around the spool, the strain on my legs became intense. It felt like the first time I had biked to the top of Holy Hill, back when I had just quit smoking and was out of shape. Hanna aimed the harpoon and took stock of the wind. Jonny stood, salivating, wrapped in a parachute we’d reclaimed from the dump.
“Let go, Jonas!” Hanna shouted, and I dove off the seat.