Frederick the Second
Jared White

The house experienced seasons like in literature. Scintillated with varieties of light on grille. The way had been prepared leading always to the moderns. I objected after my fashion. As if the end of history could be neither repugnant nor incredibly celestial. The picture window merely see-through. The chair merely a surface for bodies. Mannered things avoid the discontent of noticing. A load of gravel was strewn evenly over the driveway. Do you remember that? You called it a ruin to be addressed like a ruin. As you might call a car to take you to the train. The smell of old books is still invisible even if you read them. What do you hope to accomplish with tone? Don’t talk to me like that. Don’t talk to me at all.