Picture a house in a story book. It is some color
houses never are― -perhaps sky blue, or fire-engine red.
The winding trail that leads to its front door is
crisscrossed by trees. But when you turn the page
the undulating hills around the little house
begin to fill with voices. These voices cannot
be drawn. You must imagine the voices because
the little people in the story book cannot hear;
they are cartoons. You thought you were an ignorant
cartoon, but part of what these voices are saying
is that you are not, come out, come out. In some
legends they know your name, and say it sweetly;
in others they coo like doves or whine like
injured dogs. As you stare at the page, the house,
the trees, the voices grow louder, saying come out,
come out; now they are everywhere, the way water
is everywhere when you are under water.
On the last page of the story book the people
look sad, but it is not because the story book
is over. They live in there. It was a momentary
catastrophe. But you will never again live happily
in your house, its acres and acres of silence.
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