Part VII: Soft Thunder Registry
AMy steps returned on Tuesday. It’s still lavender and rain, but some have decided to prepare in color. The general noise of the street has yet to play polite claps for something that has not yet been performed.
The echoing key is hot, he takes it under the block, around the corner, a efficiency where he sings softly to select the items. The key is hot near a box of old picture frames. She buys three, then sits on the curb because the inspiration enjoys painful performance.
She pulls the paper with her break, paints on small doors. One says: When you need proof, you come here. One more says: Come in; There are chairs in the story. Third, nothing says, but they use blue that have rumors of a place that forgives you when they arrive soon.
sHe hangs the frames on the community cork board outside the library, and confronts them with a surgeon’s careful frosty, which pastens the star light with a wound. People stop. A little boy asks his mother if he can pass? Takes a teenage picture and does not waste it with the title. An old man touches the frame as if it can be cut, then when it doesn’t happen, he laughs. The wind trembles like a cat spread in the sun. Registry bells (you can’t see it from here, but it exists) records a small navigation…