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You had to make rules for yourself, and you had to follow them, or you really were lost.
Even though he rarely wanted the walk, he was always glad for it once he got going, if only because it got him out of the house.
The path lassoed a pond with reedy, marshy edges, a pool of water roughly the shape of a horse’s cock.
He longed to stab and hack his way out of a desperate situation: to hold off bullies, or wolves, or maybe a mountain lion.
One of the roots shifted and pressed against his ankle, snaking gently around it.
“Oh, Dennis. I never said you wanted her. You wanted this. You wanted to smash your marriage and your job and your life, all of it, into a thousand shiny little pieces.” “Why would anyone want that?” “Why do little kids break windows?” his soon-to-be ex-wife asked. “Children love the sound of smashing glass. Firebugs love a book of matches.”
that in America, even disgrace could be monetized. Even shame had market value.
“That’s probably why it’s moving. The knife wounded it so it couldn’t go anywhere. Now it’s getting better.”
He felt she owed him a fuck at this point. He was doing the time—he might as well get the pleasure of doing the crime.
You know why it looks that way, don’t you? Dennis Lange asked himself. It’s not just age. That tree was fertilized with poison. The choir director was poison.
