No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story.
For The Beatles IT was yeah, yeah, yeah, IT was across the universe. Dylan found IT in the captain’s tower between Ezra and Eliot, or possibly in the tightrope walker’s pants.
I had bought the house five years ago, shortly after their mother had left me. As part of the divorce settlement, she bought out my interest in the family home, and I used the money to make downpayments on the country house and a tiny apartment in town. My children, who were then in college, had no interest in going to the house, and preferred to fritter away their free time seeing friends or traveling, likely courting all sorts of trouble and illegality whose worst outcomes they were fortunate to evade. They rebuffed my invitations to spend even a weekend at the house, though they claimed I hadn’t tried hard enough to accommodate their schedules.
At the end of each day, Adam didn’t know what to offer of himself to counterbalance a terror unknowable to him.
“Right, yes. It’s assumed the Tollund Man was a human sacrifice, rather than an executed criminal or disliked member of Scandinavia. The way he was found—holding himself, eyes and mouth closed—imply a sanctity to his death. Now, what’s interesting is that his body was so perfectly preserved that even his last meal was left intact. A porridge, made of barley, flax, and seeds, along with some fish and—”
Moving restively through a corridor of dust. A beep of a car alarm being armed reminds me of a fire consuming a town.
Tom had once done his best to convince Seymour to read digital books, even buying him a Kindle for his birthday. Seymour refused to even start up the small device. For him, a book was only a book if he could feel its solid cover in his hands, could flip through its pages with his fingers. Hardcover and paperback were both just fine. E-books? Not for him.