I never join people on public benches. The author does. When he sat next to to me for the first time, my dog liked the smell of his cevapcici. The author shared, not entirely happy. The dog loves him since.
“You on a break?”, I asked.
“No, working, basically”, he said, facing the Swiss Alps on the lone bench by the creek that I usually enjoy for myself. He’s an artist, it turned out, and the better part of the past ten years he has spent creating a monster. Thousands of drawings, sounds, maps, concepts – and a wall of text, describing life in a foreign galaxy.
“Editor”, I said.