2004-08-13 || 1:04 p.m.

|| the extended visitor ||

when death has been announced in your family and it's on a first-name basis in your house, when it's seen what your pillowcases look like and how you leave half-filled glasses on the floor in the living room, that your garage is stacked with boxes and tools so that no car could possibly park indoors. when it's read all the pieces of paper on the bulletin board in the kitchen and knows that you like to put red exes on the days that have passed on the calendar, when it's whipped around your bedroom almost undetected except for the faint flutter of the cobwebs growing on the ceiling, your body shifts a little bit to accomodate it. there is a diffence in heart rate and breathing and your brain tries to fire up new things to think about. let's clean the house. let's make a shopping list and never get around to going to the grocery store. remember the time when anthony ate 17 white castle hamburgers in grandma's basement the summer of the family reunion. it's like looking at everything through the most sinister otherworldly sunglasses, with death's name written on the corner of the lenses in that scrawly designer handwriting.

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