  i watched a man walk past with a young girl who could have been isabella,  young and flirting with the world,  picking up rocks and investigating pebbles and taking a skip and a jump away,  bolting into a deer- like run and then returning to her father,  holding his hand and looking up at him deferentially,
 hair swinging in the night.  solomon is clean,  not by his own accord,  i scrubbed him well with blue soap and he is silken now and sweetly soft. sleepy after a days running,  i wish i could offer him the same every day.
 this house smells like sausages and peppers,  a good smell,  mixed with smoke and other intangibles.  i am five beers in and pleased to be so.  distemper,  ill-
temper,  conflagrated,  long- abated,  rare is the man whose curse ends the world.  i had no father i could remember,
 no hand to hold or voice to comfort me in the night's pavilion of horrors and lights. i remember odd things,  like his glasses of crystalled wine and glass bottles of diet pepsi and his silence and his rare of rarest playfullness. but no one turns back time,  and no one turns the dial of the mind.
