The Holly House is slatted with a wooden four-post fence there, hanging off to the side. I parked on the downside of the street. I am not comfortable here yet. I feel like an intruder and I stick out, like I am red or something.

So many times I have done that, stuck out, I don’t, but with each footstep I take I feel different and closer to it, you know, the “out part.” I don’t belong. You don’t want me. I don’t want me, but I still keep walking up from the parked slanted car there.

I have a candle burning here in my office. I just printed out my book using my printer that’s sitting on a low cabinet to the left of my desk. My book is 314 pages, and I can’t look at it. The stack of papers is on the purple cushion on the bench behind me. I am not standing. I am sitting. I am sitting in a red chair that swivels.

I was making faces when I was printing out my book. I was making painful faces as the pages were being spat out of my Brother HL-L2305W printer. I don’t know how they come up with those names for their printers. I like the name, Brother, obviously, but the rest is confusing. It’s always been confusing. I am getting sidetracked now.

So, I was in pain when I printed my book. I was screaming on the inside, don’t print it, don’t print it, don’t print it.  It’s better untouched and unseen and uneverything else there is to un. It could be so much better.

But, I like words on the page. I like my words on the page. I like these words here on the page. My neck itches (I write). I itch it (I keep writing), and I happen to glance over my left shoulder during the itch and there I catch a glimpse of an eclipse-like shadow of my printed book, and the pages there stack O so neat (I stop writing).

I am not doing anything. I can hear the cars drive by up the hill. I can hear the air conditioner running. I can hear it’s getting dark outside. It’s quiet when it’s dark.

(I keep writing) I did eat lunch at lunchtime today. I ate leftover pasta. I did splatter some red sauce on my white polo shirt. So, I stopped what I was doing, and I ran down to the house and under the sink there, we have, Shout. Man, that Shout stuff is good (I write). It works like a charm. I’d bet my life it will get out any stain out there. So, I stripped off my polo shirt and Shouted it out.

Then, I tossed the polo in the washing machine. There was no other dirty laundry in the house, so my polo got washed by itself, all Shouted out. Relax, I have a secret washing cycle that only takes fifteen minutes, so there, it wasn’t so bad. My polo shirt is clean again, and from now on I will eat red pasta sauce wearing my black polo shirt.