The Golden Circuit
October 14th. The leaves are going. Brown. Dry. They crunch under my shoes like old bones. I hear them. I always hear them. Dad is gone. Or he is leaving. Or he is staying. The house doesn’t know. The house is just wood and glass and the hum of the furnace. It is a small thing. A box in the yard. It watches me. I watch it. We are the same. I am at the office. Desk. Computer. Screen. The light...
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