Picture me and Lynelle on the floor in this room with no light except the giant television, and those movies, those enchantments flooding our senses. Sweetheart's death due to the giant hospital enfolding us, the seamless fluorescent light and the nurses at their station very nearby. I tried to repress the mere thought of it. When prayer ended, they talked freely with the local Quakers.
Even now, when existence seems unendurable I think of that sidewalk, I remember the drowsy light and the feeling of being unhurried, and the beauty of the pink petals. And he went on talking, the slobber coming down the side of his mouth to his chin. This was absolutely happening. After all, the ghost hadn't said anything to me about opening her trunk.
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