In Patagonia, a penguin stands on the ice holding a bag that is heavier than it looks and lighter than it should be. This is where Meanwhile begins - and where it keeps beginning, in different forms, across seventeen chapters that take place everywhere and nowhere in particular.
A refrigerator in a city apartment develops an interior life and keeps it to itself. A sea considers stopping being a sea and discovers it cannot, not because anyone prevents it, but because it is what it is. A mosquito keeps a diary in a language that cannot be transferred. A green sock observes a portal in the corner of a room and records everything with the seriousness of a thing that has found its purpose. A kitchen sits in the middle of a desert with three walls and no fourth one, a pot boiling without fire, a spoon pointing north, a crumb that becomes a prophet.
A train forgets where it is going. It arrives anyway, seven minutes late, which is a remarkably precise arrival for a train that has lost its destination.
Meanwhile is a work of literary fiction that operates like chaos theory - the rules exist, they are precise, they are real, but they are so sensitive to initial conditions that the result appears unpredictable. A butterfly beats its wings. Something happens on the other side of the world. The connection is there. It is not linear. It does not announce itself.
Each chapter is a self-contained world with its own logic. Together they form something larger - a book about attention, about the records we keep in languages no one else can read, about things that reconsider what they are and continue anyway, about endings that refuse to close because closing would be the wrong gesture.
The last sentence does not end. This is not an error.
Meanwhile is for readers who are comfortable not knowing exactly what they have read - and who find that comfort more interesting than certainty.
