The years empty the house out one by one, as if each year was a shim and the kids just fall out. Their voices as physical a thing as furniture.
And me? I'm leaving the world. Or it's all shrinking down to this one house. Death by couch. Dwindle. In fear of my own disbelief.
This culture is a clattering bunch of tin cans trailing a speeding car. And that makes me alone.
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