diary / by Edward Mullany


On a shelf above the TV in this flat where I am staying, in this city I’m not from but that I’ve visited before, and would like to visit again, is one of those Matryoshka dolls that can be unscrewed at its midsection to reveal, once you’ve separated the top from the bottom, and lifted it, as you would the lid of a jar, another wooden doll, of smaller size, but equal proportion, that itself can be unscrewed, at its midsection, to reveal, once you’ve opened it, another wooden doll, also smaller, but also containing another doll, and so on, until, several dolls later, if you keep going, removing dolls and taking them apart, so that you surround yourself with their shells, or halved bodies, you reach the final one, which is no bigger than your thumb, and which is also hollow, but which cannot be unscrewed, so that it holds only air, or empty space.