None of us know how close to us death is at any given moment. None of us can even imagine how deeply we have ventured into its domain. Death never meets us halfway; it can bide its time and pick the right moment. It stands in crisp, emerald grass — invisible and inevitable, observing how casually and imprudently we run into its shadow. Sometimes we’re able to slip out of its shadow again. You have to return. You always have to return. Otherwise what was the point in going somewhere to begin with?

© Serhiy Zhadan

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