The newsroom reprints misprints concerning those who live in states of satisfaction or, possibly, suspension. Superstition, maybe? Whatever: things keep collapsing, people keep getting hurt, and somewhere in the rusty chain that links rupture and reportage, someone slips. There, in the distance, a man with mice is popping foxes, as a woman with hyacinth hair takes out the trash, or takes out small villages with unpronounceable names without even breaking a sweat. Commandos take commendable command of the conflict, while civilians cavil at the cut of their sweet and sour jibs. This, you see, is where language, even at its most metaphorically precise, fails. An old man with a sandwich board and a draggled mutt stands in an unexpected downpour, and the space between the rain, the warning, and the dog – this exact space here: – is where all the truth that can’t be told occurs.
Oz Hardwick
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