The flood softened the doorways and the foundation, and before we could turn around, we were afloat in the living room. This was the palace of the universe and the window of the soul looked out and in.* Anyway, I dug out a shallow place and a sentence kept going around in my head. There was a parking lot, and I looked out on it from the third floor of 2955 Falconer Street, apartment 16. Is that front yard a graph, a palimpsest? Every thought, every future move, prefigured in that front yard. It was my childhood front yard, but it can’t have been. Because that’s the bullshit they have going on. Then there’s a whole hypocritical blah blah blah and then it dies down. Some days they just follow so you see that they’re there. They’re fuckers and they can fuck you up. Some days the cops stop you and ask for identification.
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