I was sitting in the bathtub with a translation of an ancient Chinese text and a bell started to ring. A full-throated, turn-it-into-cannonballs-in-wartime bell. The plaster walls threatened to deny stability’s dictate. What the fuck. After eight tolling strikes, the bell stopped. I looked at the clock. Not eight, am or pm. That was the beginning of the end of the train track I thought life was on.
For the next three weeks, the bells came back at inexplicable moments, always eight. Of course I was concerned. I did not want to explain what was happening to anyone. Not believable, by any test.
I received a letter covered in Mandarin characters, apparently from Guangzhou. Butter knife, opened, a single page.
Roman Ryan 