Satyamur ti

There’s no such thing as an inconsequential fact. He is there. I am here. In between, the traffic flows and flows.

61

The Messenger

They found him by the sea, down Margate way, wandering about, classy suit soaked through. Wouldn’t speak – not a single syllable to go on so they brought him in here, obviously.

We’re used to strange, but he was – alien you might say, though he ate OK, slept, drank, shat like the rest of us. Usually new ones are jumpy, but he seemed at peace

just watchful. Sometimes you’d see a trace of tears. How can there be nothing but silence on the tip of a man’s tongue – not even piss off or pass the salt? He seemed to manage by not wanting anything.

After a while, we gave him painting things and he made marks – just shapes and scribbles – nothing made sense. Every day he’d show us, as though it was a message, or a question – well

you felt useless – you could see from his eyes it was important. Star gazer’s eyes, flecked with silver light. Are you a visitor from outer space? I said to him, just to be friendly. Silence, of course.