My Wobbly Bicycle, 159
It’s kind of flying. Not only are we three floors up, but we’re at the end of the building, with windows on three sides: fourteen, to be exact. We walked in here after years in our bungalow on 8th Street, and gasped. It still makes us gasp. I think where you live, day by day, changes your sense of the world. Probably even your art. From my desk I can see the old asylum buildings that haven’t yet been renovated, and the cars snaking along Silver Drive. I can see across the open field and, in this early morning mist, the lights at Meijer’s store. I can see some of the river of lights...
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