As we drove away, Lisa said: “Your mom showed me pictures from when you were young. You looked sad.”
I dropped Lisa off and drove back.
At the house there are my mirrors everywhere. There is something in them I can’t read.
I want to destroy the culture of the house. It is also my culture. It is the culture that comes from the blaring television.
I never realize it is difficult to go back until it is difficult to go back. I smelled an old self in the air. I hate him.
There is a wrecking ball and caterpillar tracks shredding the glass and steel of my false culture.
I wear the old image like a glove. It is in the mirrors and I can see it. I am in the paintings and in the photographs and in the space between the walls.