A town that does not keep its dead out of sight, that leaves people where they died, on highways and byways, in parks and car parks, is not a town but a hell. The fact that this hell reflects our life experience in a more realistic and essentially truer way is of no consequence.

– Karl Ove Knausgård, A Death in the Family (My Struggle 1)

Didn’t you see a body by the Wisła this morning, with M on your bikes? An ambulance and a police car, a black bag. You traced back to São Paulo, a body on the berm of the Marginal Pinheiros, in the bushes, nobody around on a bright Saturday afternoon, everyone asleep. Or was it on a concrete island, near Morumbi, a grey morning on the way to Praça da República? Another few seconds and you forgot the sight, continued with your ride and chatted about dinner plans. Three hours later you remembered it again – a body in vision, slowly dissolving, then even more slowly recurring.

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