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boccaderlupoI dreamed we had mashed together various homes into a single, ramshackle living space, a kind of patchwork shantytown, low and brown. It smelled like an old rug. The seams of the place were showing: you would step diagonally from one room into another, as if they had been sewn together in a mismatch fashion.
There lived with us an old, curmudgeonly fellow, white mustache and a gleam in his eyes, who loved fire trucks and guns. He ran what seemed to be a gun store out of his side of the house, and was telling my son to stock up on rifles.
We looked out of the windows, and saw a group of hunters moving in formation along the woods that lined the property. I asked the old man about Berettas, and he began to pontificate, but I don't remember what he said.
There lived with us an old, curmudgeonly fellow, white mustache and a gleam in his eyes, who loved fire trucks and guns. He ran what seemed to be a gun store out of his side of the house, and was telling my son to stock up on rifles.
We looked out of the windows, and saw a group of hunters moving in formation along the woods that lined the property. I asked the old man about Berettas, and he began to pontificate, but I don't remember what he said.
