The purr of the HVAC and scent of fir, burnt incense. Accent lights and a far-off tick from a clock. Memory of a dream-scene: a wooden grandfather clock on its side, gutted, awaiting repair. The LED on the stove, 5:50. Bass guitar below the purr, a sorrowful voice calling. It’s Thursday, one more day to go.
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Categories: Errata
Bill Pearse 
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