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.

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