M

Am I, M, Michaela…? When they find my bones they will read the marrow. It may be that if they read the pages in their proper order I will not seem to be their Michaela. But if they scan them… at random… I am. There is no whole self and I know… After I was taken, I had a chance to leave a note on a torn page in the brush, to leave what was essential… a whole self palpitating there… free… carapace-less… while I, the husk, in captivity, died. But my thoughts… dried… The page was left blank. And I left… was wrenched from… Without a note, I went… I was gone… but nothing was missing in the radiant and happy world… Am I Michaela…? There are many new leads in the case. If you scan them at random, I am… Am I Michaela…? Let us ask ourselves whether the swallow of this summer is a different one than the swallow of that summer 25 years ago… Let us ask whether the miracle of bringing forth something from nothingness has really occurred millions of times between this summer and the summer Michaela was taken… only to be mocked an equal number of times by absolute annihilation. Or… if we are talking of birds, let us talk of the parrot that Robinson Crusoe tamed so that he could hear his own name. (Reporter: My message is to say “You” to you.) There is something in me that wants to live… that has opened a passage across matter… Michaela and M… one of us is the anchorite… one of us is the parrot…

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