SANS RIPPLE
Yeah, see. I don't do bounds
and I don't do limitations.
Why do you do things like
this? Falling out of control?
It's a feather in a hatbox; the
kind that Mr. Feltson used to
wear; the sorry light of another
day always chasing him down.
He listened to The Milkman's
Matinee on his old truck radio.
Two other guys and him they
delivered for Miller's Landing
Storage Company. I used to say,
'Why you delivering if you're
supposed to be storing? He never
answered, and I guess I never
really asked - not enough for
him to answer anyway. He and
his Mrs. never had any kids; I
never asked about that either.
Busy guy, always at it; probably
better off without them. I'd think.
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