My hands straining threads of smoke and hair, unspooling memories that aren’t mine. Sewing sense, dregs of all the houses, all the parts whispering to me themselves, surfacing from them, see them like bits of foam on the surface of an impossibly deep body of water. The lost world: nursing babies, some colicky; petulance, stomping shoes at the top of the staircase, arms crossed; tree branch snaps off a maple, crashes through the window while the family’s away, bringing with it puddles of rain seeping through the floorboards dripping downward, staining the walls downstairs; staring at paintings, then framed photographs, then televisions, monitors, phones; there was a nurse who kept –
A stir in the room.
“You’ve been asleep for a while,” he said.
The lost world’s whirling constitution disp
