I awake to the
sun sliding along slats of Venetian blinds, feeling for an
entrance into the room with a single combustible eye.
Soon I'll hear Mother's aluminum cane
tapping, then, "Joel, where are you?" And
I'll think, "Where can I be?"
almost gone, this
art of Perspective,
is of that excellency, and may be led, to the certifying, and
executing of such things, as no man would easily believe she attributes
her poor hearing to the condition of her eyes.