A Pack of Lies for July - several snippets of unformed fiction without direction. Five.

Katharina Moritsch is hiding in the tree, above me. I'm pretending not to notice, but she is breathing so.

Dawn has been promised for a long time now, light enough to read this damp magazine but dew is still forming on the plastic chair, my jacket and shoes.

From the neighbours' house a sound like vomiting or sobbing.

They are not far from here and when they arrive at noon we will all submit, one way or another.

During this last week I searched for a regret and found one: I have never learned to swim, or more properly to allow myself to float. There is a lake, where the mosquitoes breed. An hour after breakfast I will go there. I hope to be forgiven.