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Going Back We arrive late into Glasgow to a man smashing a bicycle lock with a hammer while another holds out a plastic cup to the taxi queue. He wears a thin orange mac streaked with raindrops. His face tight with storms. The vast stretches of mountains falling into lochs evaporate from our mouths as if the quality of such silence were just mist. Whisky laced with honey, the perfect reflection of a wisp of blue smoke in a blue lake. A stag who turns and runs at the clatter of wheels turning, a single falcon frozen against a sky that holds a thousand shades of grey as if light were a language all its own. As if this landscape lay buried inside us, before the streets and the buildings and the concrete evicted us from ourselves, before we forgot how to speak to the rain.
Aoife Mannix
Opposite: Mark Janssen, Epilogue #04 , From the A2011ODDITY series, 2011
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