We've moved.
I'm stranded here.

There are no buses. My driver's license was taken away quite a while ago. Someday I will move too slowly, forget to look, slip, or simply glance over what is instinctive in others. Then I will be eliminated without so much as a gasp or moment to say my defense. Even minuscule things such as being left handed skews you in favor of death. With my eyes closed, I turn in circles, holding out my arm.

There's hardly any grass here. It's a shabby place, the backyard filled with trees swathed in tent caterpillars. There are fleas in the yard. The train goes by a block down. I am awaken at two, at four, at six. The house begins to shake.

He doesn't seem to notice the squalor, this barren squalor.
Even the sunlight here is sere, withered up, exhausted. It takes from you.