Me.
David Corcoran.
Corcoran David.
Names.
Words.
Lute.
I slept fitfully that night. And although I had gone to bed quite late, I woke up very early. I was wide awake and felt a strange restlessness inside me. I got up and walked barefoot to the window of my London hotel room. Outside, a gray day was dawning.
A haze had settled over London. Light drizzle trickled from the sky.
I looked out and took a pinch of the salt of life.
That calmed me down a bit.
Suddenly I saw a face with incredible intensity in front of my inner eye.
The woman whose face I saw had shoulder-length hair with a red cast. She was wearing a light summer dress. Her eyes were wide with fear, her mouth half open. She was trembling. In the background I thought I could make out something like a gravestone. A cemetery! The realization shot through me like a ray of lightning.
The whole thing lasted no longer than a heartbeat.
Then it was over.
What does that mean, I asked myself? A picture from the future? Or from the past? Or from a faraway place?
