One man's lifetime of tiny towns
By Waj Nasser
A woman peers anxiously over a precipitous cliff. Meanwhile, her friend waves frantically in the direction of two police officers, but they are unaware of her gesticulations; their attention is instead drawn to an appealing motorcycle parked at the curb of a pastoral street. Below them in the ravine, a VW bus has come to rest traumatically against some rocks. The driver was thrown from the van, and a pool of blood surrounds his head. Midway up the cliff, the Grim Reaper himself is perched like a confident vulture, observing the misfortune below.
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