11 JUNE 06
Week 16, 14 sentences:
The house where we last all lived together--I’d never find that road now. Four twelve? Four thirteen? My father snoring, grinding his teeth upstairs. The window fan in their bedroom, blowing out. The wet street.
The first light has a reason. What we call "lyrical." And now he’ll go in with the blindfold on, to make sense of their span. Don’t belong. I have done all I could do. To be lost.
They were all facing different ways, and now they all face the same way. Things like this happen toward the end.
. . . . .
