“Sometimes, well into middle age, I composed letters to my father. In my dreams, I would meet him on a busy street, after many lost years, and he would receive me with the same old warmth. We would get into a little train together, or sit in a dark hall, watching a screen lit up with bright, moving images. 'Where were you all these years?' I would ask him, and he would ruffle my hair. My father hadn't died; he was a traveller in a different dimension, and he would turn up every now and then, just to see if I was all right.”
Book:Lone Fox Dancing
