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turned golden and viscous. He looked back in the mirror and saw himself sitting with closed eyes chewing the golden honey.
    â€œI can see myself dreaming.”
    When he saw himself open his eyes in the mirror it was night again. He’d managed to leapfrog a whole twenty-four hours. His thoughts were still viscous when he sat down and continued writing.
    â€œEvery day is like a thousand years and a moment equals a day. God can stroke a bird in flight or pluck flies out of the air. Even if he goes to Africa and comes back after a whole God-year, little will have changed because barely two minutes will have elapsed in the world of men. A fragment of a second equals an hour and in an hour a fly will have buzzed half a long-drawn-out buzz, a taxi driver’s diesel engine will have turned two revs. The noise of the engine is a heavy drawn-out purr. The driver says something on his walkie-talkie but he who perceives each day as a thousand years would take a whole week to listen to the sentence. For a whole hour nothing has been heard but a long drawn-out [ä].
    â€œIn three hundred years’ time the sun will crawl above the eastern mountains and its light will take about five seconds to flood over the whole city. Like lemon concentrate pouring from a round spout, the light will flood from the sun, covering the city like resin, and, coated in this, people will move so slowly that it will take them a whole year to brush their teeth. But perhaps the light is more like honey because when it oozes under your eyelids, you wake up and murmur, ‘Mmmm honey . . .’”
    The old cord-phone on the desk rang, disturbing further calculations. It emitted a shrill tone and LoveStar twitched at every ring. He looked at the phone for a good while before picking up the receiver.
    â€œHello.”
    It was the leader of the search party.
    â€œThe search was successful,” he said solemnly. “We’ve found the spot. It all ends in one place.”
    â€œWhat did you find there?” asked LoveStar.
    â€œWe don’t know,” said the search leader, “but we’ve found the spot.”
    â€œWhat did you find there?” asked LoveStar in a tremulous voice. “WHAT DID YOU FIND? WHERE DOES IT ALL END?”
    The search leader was silent.
    â€œAnswer me!” LoveStar looked at his shaking hand.
    â€œNo one dares to look. No one dares to go anywhere near the place.”
    â€œDamn it . . .” said LoveStar and looked around. He suddenly felt there was someone listening. “What are you going to do?” he whispered.
    â€œI don’t know,” answered the search leader. “I simply do not know.”
    â€œWhat about you?”
    â€œI’m not going anywhere near it. I’ve got a wife and children at home. You can fire me, sir, but I don’t dare go anywhere near.”
    LoveStar slammed down the receiver.
    He went himself.
    He found a seed.
    Which is why he was sitting in a plane with a seed in the palm of his hand and an infinitely heavy sensation in his chest. His heart was like a broken egg. The shell jabbed into his spine, diaphragm, and lungs, making it difficult to breathe. His suffering would soon be at an end. The honey sun would never again flood under his eyelids. He only had three hours and thirty-three minutes left to live.

HONEY
    When Indridi and Sigrid’s life was sweet as honey, they woke in the morning sunshine as if glued together with it. Not intoxicating Chicago honey but pure, golden, sugary royal honey. Palm clasped to palm, bodies pressed together, and legs so entwined that it was hard to see which foot belonged to which body.
    â€œHoney,” murmured Indridi and removed his tongue from Sigrid’s mouth to say good morning, but she pouted and sucked his tongue back between her lips, hugging him closer and clamping her thighs around him. They lay like this for a good half hour, and although he was inside her, they