A man’s most open actions have a secret side to them. (Under Western Eyes – Joseph Conrad)
What do we call them, these hybrid, liminal places? ‘Parks’, it seems. ‘Park’ being a word that conjures nothing of their reality, their bounty and their lack.
Lock themselves into snapshots on the steps of monolithic bronze as if suspecting the subtle mourning of the photograph might later conjure in the memory all they are now incapable of feeling. (‘The Permanent Tourists’ – PK Page)