October sunlight stumbles into the room as I rise, shrugging off the curious telepathy of dreams. Dandelion prints chase their yellow tails across the walls; it is as if you were never here.
A lad who once dated the baby's mother got married last month, has a kid of his own, and is off to serve in Afghanistan. My mother was married at twenty.
The street light on the corner faded to a flickering, blood-red wound, and when I woke up at dawn it stood there, black and solemn, like a burned-out match.
the shrunken envelopes and newspaper are brown and crinkled like the underside of a mushroom, and the slender black sticks are curved with the symmetry of bones.