The Murder of John Lennon

I walked through the townhome. I'd like to say it was four-directional. Even the wood smelled that way. I walk down stairs wooden frameworks around me. Water boiling beneath metal cages.

Ratiocination

Everything was contained in that awkward embrace. It was a product of a mutual recognition of the compulsory familial obligations. The singular act can be further boiled down to the embarrassed glance. Her eyes moved to avert mine, and meaning to disguise her natural southern aversion, she leaned far to the right--an almost sarcastic embellishment. I wasn't interested. People are base and self absorbed by nature, and in any event, they are also forgetful. In retort, I noted her blond hair mussed by the wind, and her dropsical face caked with flaking putty. In youthful ignorance I had loved her once, scratching letters into my back with long faux fingernails--now she seemed nothing more than flesh built around a tired southern caricature. As she leaned I defeated this caricature. The sun caught my eyes and I left them there. Tabula rosa--the peace of nothingness, shared by vacuums, rocks and death. The sound of bags sliding, banging steel walls.

Later, my wife and I were in the back of their 1980s Ford Bronco. I could smell that he was drinking. I told my wife to look out beyond the front windshield because we were entering a verdant tunnel of trees and ivy; one so emblematic of the state.

We walked and could not get back. How did we get here? The process of ratiocination set in.