The top drawer always stuck just a little. The slight nudge passed the 2/3 mark, the sweet spot. Unless, as sometimes did happen, a pen or lighter, became wedged behind the right rear wheel, the wood had rotted, black and orange with rolling shadowers, And there! Shit. It was a lighter behind that wheel, yellow and faded. 30 years. Could it light the flares to lead the rest of us out? Flick. Flick. Constant check of chipping flint for just a glimpse of faulty maps and corridors adorned with dust and “In the beginnings,” Flourished cornucopia like bacterial indulgence swept. The corrosion left this warehouse, a place where sundries, covered roofs, evictions counting them all one by one; Lever rusted with autumn dust, pointed stars sleep steep tales of pass it on. Moreover, there was a crumpled piece of paper, Unrumpled corners crept the light in cascading imagery ink read with an odor of ceremony.
41
