Wave upon wave of heat rose to my head, which I lowered, and into my face. I walked past an old fire station, it was made of wood and painted white, beneath it the town’s myriad colors vibrated, I walked along the very highest line of houses until I slowly began to descend and was back outside my place. That is where he lives, I thought. The brother who believes he’s a writer. And when I opened the door and went into my room it was as though I was still in the street looking at myself, the conceited idiot who closed the curtains and kept out the world. * * *
Mind-boggling the brutal honesty of KOK's self-observation.
