Confessions
Things at the old summer home found me exactly where they'd been left; apparently standing, holding up normally, comfortable in the countryside dust. But it was a facade, it seems they've been waiting for a chance to go haywire, into a full blown confession, of a backstory, a type of narrative where realities pretend to be fictions. The glow from a side lamp in the living room jitters like a sugar low, as I try to read my book. The...
