range
raze in a strange city that hasn't yet come to feel like home, she sits in her car and watches a child nod off under a blanket in the back seat of someone else's ancient automobile. "the last time i talked to richard," she writes in the book of her life, "he told me nothing worthless would stay. so i stayed, just to prove him wrong." she made an album ten or so years ago. they call it country music, though there isn't much twang in the tunes. the opening track features furiously strummed acoustic guitars plugged in. the choked quack of piezo pickups, savage and familiar. someone should have stuck a microphone or two in front of those things. "both within range," she sings. "coffee and noon." i know what she means. time is a fist with flattened knuckles, busting up the morning's mouth. we lick its lips to taste how close we are to being gone. 240810
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