[Advice: Listen to this while reading]
Sun. Dry heat. A sky so blue it could kill you. It would be worth dying for. The moon was up already, a white, wise observer. Always calm, patient, distant. The house on the hill was my destination, ignored by this aged witness of our crimes and joys. The view from down here was intimidating. I couldn’t take my eyes off that blue. The shrubbery was suffering in the sun. But it always recovers. Like the bastards living up there. It was just not fair: no matter what they do, they’ll be free men, and no matter what I do, I’ll be a dead man. I already heard the priest giving the eulogy at my funeral. He knows me well, although I never went to church in my years on this island. I have worked for him as a gardener. But there’s no point in thinking about all this, in thinking at all, the only thing left is DOING. Sweat was running down my spine. Not because of the heat. It was cold sweat, I was fearing death. Not mine, but hers.