Tuesday, March 6, 2012

"I had a dream last night, and it fit me like a glove. . ."
--Gibby Haynes

There were three of us, looking at sale houses. The sky was a summer overcast: Sunny to the east of us, black to the west.

It was a strange neighborhood. There were houses with trees and bushes suffused with or breaking through the flats of rooftops. The most structurally sound looking house had had all its windows busted out, and the front door opened inward, haunted house style, as we walked towards. At first, old newspapers were tossed at us, willy nilly, fluttering in the wet wind as if a huge stack had been set in the foyer and the temperature difference inside-outside was so huge; but then a piano charged out the door, narrowly missing us, and careened down the driveway to tip and explode bloodily on the curb.