Son
There’s smoke in here. The lights are dim.
A black table. Four chairs that squeak.
“But who would think of stopping him?”
“Well, me. I am his son.” And no one speaks.
-Sean’s dream, the afternoon of 2/18
There’s smoke in here. The lights are dim.
A black table. Four chairs that squeak.
“But who would think of stopping him?”
“Well, me. I am his son.” And no one speaks.
-Sean’s dream, the afternoon of 2/18
