CHILDHOOD - bojan babic

We ride a small wooden slaughtered horse. Our nails are stained with blood because we have killed half the village with a small crystal knife. We will sell our stockings and throw our dolls when we grow pubic hair. We will spend fresh mornings in New Orleans – where people wear wide hats.
You will marry me.
I will marry you.

The Melancholy of Resistance
Laszlo Krasznahorkai