took a room at the Colonial Motor Lodge, sat down at the desk and began to write. "What began as a dream eventually developed into a log cabin, over time eroding into ruins, memory, and finally dream again." Outside, winter laid ox-bows of wet light onto the park. Life forms clicked and clawed at the soil that had locked them out. A kid stood there, about to break a green bottle. Life was, once again, very lifelike. " ...now that the dead are anyone's property." A man sat on a park bench, seemingly torn between waiting and remembering. "I'm haunted by the insistent pulse I hear while scuba diving, by the idea that the mind might climb to wider scopes or simply cram the night with taxis ..."
A cardboard colored dog paused downwind from the offices of Southern Pulmonary. " ...torn between waiting and remembering, our minds are like candles in a crevasse, potted plants in an unfinished lobby." It was here at this very intersection, two hundred and ten years before, that the governor's carriage had come through and turned over in the rutted road. "but the now keeps coming. It's like wrestling your father. He pins you down and you cannot move." The heap lay silent. Wig powder billowed out the windows.