Tuesday, December 23, 2008

The Gift That Stops Giving

Not only alone but now also, he is fascinated to discover, without the power (and it is a power) to throw the snowball that’s slowly melting in his frozen, though adequately besocked, hand. He lets it drop, the snowball, which is instantly lost within a something of white. Blanket. Sheet. Expanse.

His father, behind him, as he gazes at his reflection within the golden Christmas tree bauble, says something about how you can’t help but resemble Pete Townshend when you look into a bauble or into the back of a spoon. Pete Townshend, he says again. You know, he did those songs you like, Magic Bus and Happy Jack.


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