At the dark end of the street, I found the door that I had been told would be there and passed
through it. My bones crunched and rattled with each step, and my eyeballs jarred in their
sockets. The ground itself began to dance. Gravestones fell over and smashed. The messiah
appeared like a parade float overhead. Those who had once waited in expectation of his coming
were gone by then, some grown tired and disaffected, others made into lamp shades.

&

Nothing would grow there. Even souls had a kind of leaf blight. Historical sites represented on
Google Maps by triangles turned out, in fact, to be just triangles. I couldn’t help but smile, even
if I had to smile with broken, yellow teeth.

&

When I arrived back home, no one was there, though the radio was playing in the kitchen,
tuned to a classical music station, Glenn Gould interviewing Glenn Gould about Glenn Gould. I
climbed the stairs, undressed, and fell exhausted into bed. I may have slept or I may have just
thought I did, drifting on the treacherous surface of a vast emptiness, the lonely all dead by
their own hand.