Yukio
Yukio was utterly still and yet every aspect of his face, every muscle of his limbs, seemed poised on the verge of a violent animation. Sitting in front of this folded figure, I felt as a hapless jelly, paralysed on a plastic tide-line, stranded before an immense and static wave. The room, which contained Yukio and cornered me, seemed to collapse into a stark and timeless equation of predator and prey. The mock decorum of our human status, our clothes, our chairs, our rank hair gel, only intensified the bestial urges in both – for my part to run, to scream, to distract, for Yukio, a simple desire to preside.
