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In the mornings when the summer was hottest I ran simultaneous with the rising of the sun. When I would run, I would round the top edge of he park, the northern edge of the park, and then I would hear their voices. At first the sounds approached sidereal, as sounds that are not sounds, [...] Yet on nights when, under all the arc-lanps, the little men of the rain come running, you’ll know at last that, long long ago, something went wrong between St. Columbanus and North Troy Street. And Chicago divided your heart. When did this happen? What a slick new website, what snarky, incisive, bullshit-cutting-through writing! What a lot of video and stuff! The larders and the panties have all been raided, and the master of the house has suffered the indignity of having his liquor reserves ransacked by the help and the riff-raff and imbibed out of doors, on the street, away from properly rich mahogany. The empty bottles of The Macallan 12 year litter the streets. |
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