DARK LOVE - kim goransson


The body lay on the riverbank, its face a cool and tangled mask of seaweed and regret. Seeing off the curious gulls, inspector R. inhaled the salty-repugnant perfume that all expired beings waft of. Turning his attention to the set of footprints leading away from the body that, sure enough, appeared to be one-footed, he began to hum.


I am the darkness that swallows all. I know a dark love. My heart is a thousand-feet-deep stone chamber that you will never pry open. I have been known to murder babies only to return them to their mothers in pieces. I am the original motherfucker. Hear hear, who is calling, I am the darkness that swallows all.


Inspector R. carefully replaced “Mass in B Minor” on the turntable and with the first note sank into the abyss. Walking the narrow corridor with the 111 doors again: the terrified screams, feeling every handle. There was the unbearable stench, both familiar and strange. There, in his left shirt-pocket, heavy and close to heart, lay the solitary key.

Kim Göransson


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