Jul 21, 2024
lancelot, or galahad as he would discover years down the line through the freak inevitable revelation of his patriline, had arrived below the white cliffs shrieking and purple, half out of his mother's ailing body. the first warm hands on him were therefore those of a fat border control officer, and this, he later imagined, gave reason for a relative absence of sweetness towards his own offspring. it had been his cries which had led to the container's end being pried open. of course he did not acually remember, but the image of the crack of light expanding as his mother breathed her last would stay with him, and an unease in confined spaces would come to dictate much of his adult life.
