Thousand: Three Hundred Seventy-Six

into the ice, which was a series of short fat tubes through which messages passed, sweet, cold, yellow. He smiled weakly. When he looked up he was alone in the room but for the pinscher. He touched the dog’s head. It didn’t tense up so he let his fingers wander back and forth across the pelt. He sipped his lemonade, dissolving the crystals on his tongue. A comet of the Oort cloud is turning back toward the sun. Sitting on the side of the bathtub she’d just cleaned, a girl runs a blade lightly over her wrist. Once a dream