Fiction | June 01, 1989

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Years passed in this way, this dull, grey quotidian. I was nothing, an endless succession of days, today disappearing into the blur of a past so undistinguished as barely to exist. I decided to eat everything in the house. It seemed a worthy project. To void the house of food. It would be a pure act in an impure world. Bottles, jars, biscuit tins would become pure in its frost, empty, sterile as the white tundra. My body would become a shelter, sculpture, art.

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