You live inside a hollow hill, near an ocean headland, the sound of the sea lulling you to sleep every night. In the morning, sunlight floods the cavity of your hill through the hole you dug out from the side with a variety of spoons. Inscribed in the wall beside the hole are the words: ‘Maybe you’ve been an apostle all along.’ Over on the other side, by the entrance to your home, are the words intended for your tomb, inspired by a Roman of antiquity, reading: ‘I did not exist, I existed, I do not exist, so much for that.’ Outside the entrance to your home is your car with three hundred thousand kilometres on the odometer. Neighbours encourage you to buy a new model, without saying precisely why, but you suspect it has something to do with letting down the neighbourhood. Impressions are important, after all, especially when you want to attract the right kind of people. Then you’ll calmly point out that you live inside a hill, have done so long before anyone else ever set foot here, and your ways don’t look like changing anytime soon … which was when, most recently, you heard the words: ‘You’ve always been marvellously unacclimatised to life, haven’t you?’

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