quixoticWhen I got home today, I thought someone else was here, too. Out of the corner of my eye I caught the flicker of a tall person stepping out of the downstairs bathroom and turning the corner into my father's office. But when I went into the room no-one was there. The person wore a white collared shirt – it was probably just an after-image of my dad. I see those a lot when I drag my fingers up and down the walls of our house. We've lived there so long that my family's patterns and habits have soaked into the furniture and the foundation. When I'm in a particular frame of mind – the semi-alert balance between daydreaming and daywalking – I'll pick up the old sounds or ghostly flashes that routine have bored into the wallpaper and the carpets. There's a technical word for this, but I don't quite recall it. Psychometry. I think that's it.
What am I doing hanging round? I should be on that train and gone. I should be riding on that train to San Antonio. What am I doing hanging around?
Ten days 'til I make the decision. Morals suck.
