living quietly in the universe, changing little and being little and seeming invisible.

i remember big silos across the armington sky's eye, cornfields and frightened wooden fences on both sides of us, as we drove down and down, end up in a old basement with cardboard posters of judy garland, naked lightbubs that looked damn fine, like trapped lightning, the whole room covered in a funny kind of thunder. i remember sue with us, mom's skinny friend, she had some kind of cancer and a tall husband. when she smiled she looked like a happy skeleton.

later in other memories i remember a short boy with a shaved head who talked all the time and would always ask me if i was a mute or something and his house was covered in stinky clothes and broken stuff, his mom would spend hours colouring in spider man colouring books and singing along to these old records with songs like "love potion number nine" and "midnight train to georgia" and their house was a ugly style of white living in front of a big long old field that had a tiny forest between it, and the kid with no hair was building weapon's in the woods and killing little things with it, rats and stuff, we chased rats around with a hammer sometimes and played jokes on his sister, then one day during a black out we found him in his sisters bed, naked and kissing her, his dad beat him up and i don't remember going back after that. his mom used to get her hair done at some fancy house in the suburbs and the colour of the house was the colour of the birthday cake at the supermarket.