“He’d seen a glowing in the depths there, some kind of light sometimes as if from reflective metal money, sometimes as if from one large blinking pupil. He had not been able to swim down far enough—his small lungs red as if to ripping—the pressure in his head like large hands—he’d given up. 1180 had not told 811 she’d used the water in the stairwell to wash their laundry, and her body—she’d had no choice—nothing was coming through the home’s pipes to their rooms, none to wipe the baby clean or m...ix with liquor. The stairwell water seemed like any other water for the most part, though it was so cold and somehow slick, and sometimes she felt sure she could feel it staying specific through her holes, not mixing with the other liquids of her body, private rivers. So many things they kept from one another without a reason. Some days 1180 would come to sit by the water’s lip and read. She read mostly instruction manuals for dead appliances and convoluted diagrams of local zoning, as there were no other words these days created—too many were too defeated, and all remaining paper had all been reserved by assholes for phonebooks, receipts and bills.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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