I’ll tell you what it’s like.
The first moments drag like hours, as they’re dragged into the earth. Whether the cruelty of the Fates or the gears of your own perception grinding to a halt, the only thing you’re certain of is that the seconds no longer peel away. Each is another needle pricking your skin, reminding you of your mortality, reminding you of theirs.
Continue readingIt is June 28, 1914. Exiting a delicatessen, Gavril Princip steps up to the Gräf & Stift car and fires upon Archduke Franz Ferdinand and his wife Sophie. The bullets strike the Archduke’s jugular vein and Sophie’s abdomen, although Princip was aiming for Oskar Potiorek instead of the duchess. He tries to turn the gun on himself, but is seized by Bosnian police. Sophie has bled out, her body sprawled along the leather seating. Ferdinand passes ten minutes later.
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