27. BEGINNING B
The steady rain has become a storm, the first big storm since I arrived here … how long has it been again? Eight weeks? Nine? I’ve lost track of time. The wind howls through the deck railings; the geraniums have all blown over in their pots. Like a charging army of white rabbits whitecaps scurry across the lake.
I scribble away frantically, my confession hurtling to its conclusion like a runaway locomotive. I’ve filled all six composition notebooks twice, my handwriting grown more crabbed and microscopic with each book. Presently I am writing between the upside-down lines of the last page of the last notebook, which I opened from behind and turned arsey-varsey, or tête-bêche, as the French say.
Writing to whom? Who are you?
I guess I’ll never know.
For all I know no on
