Mountain air in our lungs, a hearty sausage-and-home-fries, fire cooked meal inside us both. A last wipe of oil along our bolt action Berettas — the two big bores we’ve entrusted for our try at the trophy racks.
“I don’t feel like I belong, and that’s without real pain, without pride. Pride happens. No, I’m just disconnected, from practically everything. I have a few anchors, and sometimes I let them go or they let me go, and I drift. That’s most of the time. Sometimes I hang on for a few days, minutes, seconds, then I let go again. I can hardly look. I can hardly hear. Semi-blind, semi-deaf, I float. Sometimes I sink. But not quite. Something, sometimes a detail, brings me back to the surface, and I start floating again…”
Chantal Akerman