Sunday, 4:14 a.m.
Hush. It's the opposite of noise. The opposite of greed. The opposite of suicide bombings. Of blast. Of hate. Of war. The opposite of roar. No bangs. No screeches. Heaters stretch and groom. Lint spins with dog hair. Furniture goes to the gynecologist. Unabashedly. No self-consciousness. Not even Sunday. Usually so cloying. So woolen and tightly knit. No. Feral snores and fat farts pop and rumble about the house like sloppy giants. New newspapers softshoe onto the porch dressed in ugly plastic jackets. No one would ever conceive of mowing his lawn. Nor chainsawing dead wood. Nor blowing his leaves. It's the opposite of blowhards. The opposite of daftness. Round bakers with great arms knead large dough balls. Sprinkle raisins and brown sugar. Shape scones. Yes. Wolves howl. Yes. There are damaged who are stalking their prey. Loveless weep into luxurious pillows. But it's far in the distance where Jan in Ohio is sleeping. She could sleep through anything. Don't you remember?