“Oh, much better. They were bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny clapboard house. And it is your own fault that your husband dallies with me. Basically, I was raised in daycare. The scent of cloying pine dust filled the air as floodlights shone eerily through the jungle gym of new wood. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. The ambitions of his life, and they were many, seemed to lie far away, broken up dreams in some outside world where the way was rough and the sky always grey.
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