note on a brutalist fiction
A brutalist fiction
somebody told me, that I was once a horse breeder
located in Devon, in the South West of England.
An order, to question our understanding of time, since this refers to a happening in the past,
a long time ago.
A possible, yet unlikely past.
Moving in a herd, coming close and following each other
standing in the back, watching
the shapes became unclear
I failed in seeing it.
I was afraid of them, when they came, approaching and surrounding me that night.
They were warm, almost reflecting last light of day.