Forget Magazine. Remember, Remember, Remember.

Mark's backpack was heavy so he took it off. It stood upright at the side of the road, and he sat next to it. Trying to think of other things, he waited for a while; looking left and right, and up. His head was heavy. He took it off and put it close to where he was sitting.

The backpack, Mark and Mark's head were in a perfect line - in diminishing size - his head closest to the direction he was going in. Instead of looking forward it looked over the road. The head spoke "Have we thought about going this way instead?"

His body and the backpack were silent. He took his mouth off his head and put it just in front of his face.

"No," the mouth continued, and then was silent too, as if the matter was decided.

Mark took his feet off and put them between himself and his head. Then he took off his legs and lay them down. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, but the beauty of the place was evident. The eyes rolled around, and the lungs sighed.

"We could stay here," said the mouth. "It's a long way from home."

The feet jumped up and down and the head shook from side to side. The mouth made to speak, but did not speak. Bunhan, bunahan: to be about to speak, to be not about to speak, thought the brain.

After a while Mark put himself back together, and lifted his backpack. He walked in the direction he had come from.

When his father asked him why he'd come home, he said "it's not a small world, Dad."

His dad nodded. And switched the TV on.

Alice Kuipers has got it together.