That night the man with the long blond hair came to her again. She had brought a book on her runaway’s journey. It sat, untouched, on the bureau. A light bulb hung from the ceiling, speaking of gray dock’s skeletal immersion and the wind blowing pink. Of fume bellow and all-invasive cell torment. Where she had to sleep were the remains of walls, etched by salt and time. She and the boys came to rest like sodden butterflies blown by the exhale of dementia; melancholy calliope wind. They clung to barstools of scrolled iron with their wings distended; showing in the sun like gasoline. The sea ran to the west, while on the curved horizon, houses of steel and glass faced the sky.
You will not be able to put The Mirror of Heaven down --trust me.