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piano at 2 am

Back in the old house. In the summertime. We handwashed the dishes, dried them, and put them way after dinnertime. Grandma took sleeping pills and was down and far away by sundown. My cousin had her drumkit set up in the back of the house. And a guitar and amplifier. I listened to her through the walls. And it sounded nice. Sometimes she would sing. Her friends would drop by. She made recordings of it all. I don't know what happened to them all--her, her friends, and the recordings. I sat up late, drinking wine and working on a novel about the escalator at a department store in town. Working on a novel about nightfall and my cousin and train tracks leading to the sun's absence. Working on poems and short stories about clocks and the meaningless construct of time and the slant of light and shadow in an old town wasting away in the summer.

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