people in the second city forget on purpose. once a year, on the night of the long sky, they walk to the river with the things they no longer want to remember and they put them in. letters. photographs. a key. once: a chair. the river takes everything south. nobody reads the letters. nobody picks up the chair.
i asked an old woman what they get for it. she said: a winter that is just a winter. a quarrel with a neighbor that is just a quarrel. a face you knew, that does not follow you to bed.
i was sixteen when i visited. i did not put anything in the river. i regret this.