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Add a week long insomnia to ridiculously intense coffee, an occasional shot of grappa, all in the thin mountain air north of Milan and you get a strange, little gem that you could never hope to reproduce under normal mental conditions.
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Had just moved to Switzerland when I wrote this one. Simultaneous influences here: studying qigong, losing uncountable hours in shitty trains commuting to work, letting George Bush Junior (the idiot son of a criminal sociopath) get on my fucking nerves.
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At around sixteen I first learned about the condition of premature aging called Progeria. I wrote the outline of a story called "Progeria, my love", about parents who sell their daughter to an agricultural enterprise to speed up the growth of their cabbages. But like so many other stories, it never got written.

Two decades later I was living in Berlin and part of a small writing group. We were doing a writing exercise together and the suggestion was ‘botox’. Fifteen minutes later I had this piece.
Defeated, but too proud to admit it, I took my notes with me on holiday to Sarajevo. I sat at the window table of a small pizza place (for which, of course, Sarajevo is famous) and stared out, waiting for inspiration. Sad cars. A satellite dish. Clothes drying on a balcony.

This is fucked.

"The Long Jumpers of Hai-Richi Gorge." The title came to me as is. I didn’t know what it meant, but it sounded interesting.

Thirty seconds later I knew exactly what it meant, and started smashing it down or risk losing it forever.

I didn’t stop until the first draft was done.
I started a story called The Crows of Schloss Charlottenburg that was giving me hell. After a few weeks all that I had that wasn’t try-hard shit or moist drivel was the title.
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