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.