Electricityless from four p.m. last evening, in the middle of selecting color matting with new customers. Sudden pouring rain, knowing that the windows are all open in the house, computers on and knowing it’s too late to make the dash across the driveway. I’ll pick which grey goes better, and I’ll write down here you want the walnut but in the style of the mahoghany frame. Let me work up prices–oh, it doesn’t matter? Okay then, well thank you for braving out the storm and drive carefully.
Gas stove ensures a dinner. Water jugs ensure a sanitary bathroom. Cold coffee’s fine, it’s how I drink it anyway, but remember not to open the refrigerator unless needed and close it quickly.
A few hours later and it is lighter outside from a full moon then in the house with Coleman lantern. Such silence like we’ve never heard before. No humming of the fridge, pc’s or white noise. No treefrogs, buzzing streetlight, nor a breeze to stir the raindrops from the trees. He gets tired of reading and goes to bed at nine. I’m hunched over the kitchen table flying through the lives of people I only know through words and yet three more have died in just those few pages.
100 Years of Solitude. A book for an electricityless night alone and quiet.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology
Yet your internet survived, much to delight of literary afficionadoes. You take my breath away.