“To Maurice Alfred Jackman”, at my address. Fuck! My real fuckin’ name’s my fuckin’ business.Now you know why I insist on being called ‘Ja...k Jackman’.I closed the door, although it was colder inside the flat than outside. I ripped open the big envelope and shook out a thin padded envelope about 150x200mm, with a repeat of my name and address in block capitals on the front. I turned it over and read the return address, and whistled. My old man himself, Jonathan A Glover, no less, lately of some. “You and Pol and Me, Phillip,” said Margaret. “It feels so real.”“And the center?” Doc asked.“I could only feel that there was a mystique that permeated what you saw and that you were unable to put into words. Perhaps the shadow of multiple futures played out before your eyes,” William continued. “Therefore, I have chosen for the figures at the center of the rostrum, not the lovers that you thought you saw, but a Pieta—weeping Madonna with her crucified son. The positioning is the same as. More

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