And there’s a meteor shower going on.
First–and last–the dog. That dog. The one, when you turn onto Myrtle Street from Rantoul on your way up to Cabot… there used to be a dog. A yipping, shitty little dog that yipped its little, yippy, shitty face off every time you walked by its house.
That dog must be dead. Because it no longer yips.
I just noticed.
This is all a grand metaphor that you can’t possibly understand.
Be careful what you wish for.