"Where?" The woman scowled, bewildered. "Iowa," Agnes repeated loudly. The woman in black touched Agnes's… — Lorrie Moore
"Where?" The woman scowled, bewildered.
"Iowa," Agnes repeated loudly.
The woman in black touched Agnes's wrist and leaned in confidentially. She moved her mouth in a concerned and exaggerated way, like a facial exercise. "No, dear," she said. "Here we say O-hi-o."
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As a vacuum cleaner can start to pull up the actual thread of a carpet, her brains had been sucked dry by too much yoga.
Every songwriter in their smallest song seems to possess some monumental grief clarified and dignified by melody, Bill thinks. His own sadnesses, on the other hand, slosh about in his life in a low-key way, formless and self-consuming.
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