Painting off Grand Lake. Can you see the lightbulbs of the theatre sign pop, blink, gush from here? No. There are daddylonglegs everywhere, scattering across the art deco tiles to avoid a broom or rappelling from the mildewed ceiling unto your shoulder. 8-legged wonders in a bathroom of a house rented by a woman whose kitchen smells wonderful. Like tender ovenhot raspberry-stained morsels. Like she is always baking. Like she is not yet weary of the world. She has the softest voice.

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