Blending into the tinctures and textures of the countryside. The tree which falls without any human hearing still falls, as the creatures who die without being found by a human still die.

Blending into the tinctures and textures of the countryside. The tree which falls without any human hearing still falls, as the creatures who die without being found by a human still die.

Sara Baume
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Our toys were sixteen or seventeen; only the very eldest were in their early twenties, because, apparently, I didn't envision anything of particular interest in life beyond twenty-five. And now I am a greater age than any of the toys were allowed to reach, older than I even cared to imagine as a child.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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Blending into the tinctures and textures of the countryside. The tree which falls without any human hearing still falls, as the creatures who die without being found by a human still die.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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I can't remember the name of the piece, or the artist. Maybe it wasn't even an artwork. Why must I automatically assume that every strange object is a sculpture, that every public display of unorthodox behavior is an act of performance.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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I lie down and think about how this whole long, strange summer ought to end in a substantial event. But, probably, won't. For the first time I acknowledge the possibility that nothing will die, or change, or even happen.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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It's too warm for red wine; now I mix gin and tonics instead. I find they make the ordinary sensation of living lighter, less ruffled.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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This morning, I see the lead in my glass tumbler. A slim, bright glint, a silverfish. I feel it collecting in my blood, papercutting the lining of my veins.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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Sometimes things happen that give me cause to believe I no longer exist. Car park barriers which do not lift when I drive towards them, automatic doors which do not open automatically as I approach.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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And out the bus window, here is my dead world come true, my whole dead world in motion.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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But I have never wanted to be perceived as chatty and bright. I have always wanted to be solemn and mysterious.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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People don't like it when you say real things.

Sara Baume, A Line Made by Walking
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