Seymour durst biography of michael

One of my oldest, most vivid and beautiful memories starts with me being ill. I was seven years old and woke up in fever. Our mom used to rub our breast with menthol cream when one of us got sick.

Durst family

I can almost feel the rough texture of my old pyjama when I think about it. While my siblings were at school and my parents at work, I curled myself up in annual rings of blankets on the arm chair. I guess it resembled a kangaroo cub in a cloth pouch. Until noon, the whole house would be mine. My parents ran a bakery on the ground floor of our house, separated from the living areas through a heavy, spring-loaded iron door.

Whenever he entered or left the shop, the chaotic sound of laughing guests, rattling bread boards and begging children dubbed the backdrop of distinct chatter and motor growls. Every breath was enriched by flavours of warm bread, dark chocolate, flaked almonds and sugar icing.

Is katie marks alive

Whenever I came home, I would try to run up the stairs before the iron door click shut. Quests were everywhere. I explored ancient ruins, crooked caves and abandoned shores, with nothing but Lego bricks, video games and audio plays. Imagination carried me away the moment I woke up in the morning and I would not return until sleep overcame me in the evening.

Back then, reality and fiction were one. They simultaneously occupied the same space, like a body and its soul.