Doch

Like a walk through the dreams of another. The sun shines through the treetops and leaves, the sky is reflected in a lake, and on the banks of the short there lie people with ticks. They make grimaces, or yell obscene words in the middle of someone else’s sentence. Some are introverts, other are actors. What will happen this time if my limbs twitch, or if I scream? What kind of scream is this? One says it’s a cry for love. Wrong, says another, looking for an argument. It’s a cry for authenticity. (Renée Zucker)