You remember. You were small. Surrounded by this barking, and hair. There is a stream and what looks like a field. The television set simply glowed, off-green and flak-angled. In a corner of the room by a radiator the Perhapsatron reels silently to itself. Cork floors and the wall of blue glass. We were different now, of a grassland, on couches, under couches, indigenous to the zero and the whirl, casting hams to keep from howling.
Jeffrey Little | The Hook Dog Blues Contents | Mudlark No. 47 (2012)