Mark Z. Danielewski Quote
There is only a black fenceand a wide field and a barn of Wyeth red.The smell of anger chokes the air.Ravens of September rain descend.Some say a mad mad hermit man lived heretalking to himself and the woodchuck.But he's gone. No reason. No sense.He just wandered off one day,past the onions, past the fence.Forget the letters. Forget love.Troy is nothing more thana black finger of charcoalfrozen in lake ice.And near where the owl watchesand the old bear dreams,the parapet of memory burns to the groundtaking heaven with it.
Mark Z. Danielewski
There is only a black fenceand a wide field and a barn of Wyeth red.The smell of anger chokes the air.Ravens of September rain descend.Some say a mad mad hermit man lived heretalking to himself and the woodchuck.But he's gone. No reason. No sense.He just wandered off one day,past the onions, past the fence.Forget the letters. Forget love.Troy is nothing more thana black finger of charcoalfrozen in lake ice.And near where the owl watchesand the old bear dreams,the parapet of memory burns to the groundtaking heaven with it.