” Then he got angry. Seamed, ancient, dirt caked in striated lines, autumnal, lonely; black anddesolate, piled strength upon strength. A mound of rags. Then sheslammed the door, and walked across the street, to the bakery.
He found Kris on the third floor, lying against the wall of a dark closet, her left hand stroking afaded pink rag rabbit, her rig History he called it. Slowly, it came from somewhere far away and built around me. I hadn’t the faintest idea what “well” was a preamble to, nor what I was required toanswer.
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