Good Night Primrose

I THOUGHT I'D LOST YOU, I THOUGHT I'D LOST MYSELF....

Night.

Rain.

The low engine hum acted as the pedal point to the endless strikes of soles on pavement, the distant cry, all replaying in a percussive loop, all blanketed under the constant shower of white noise. The impression it created (for it is mere impressions which we feel and the details which one plagiarizes from the imaginations of others) reminded me of the lonely nights in a parlor with the radio across the table. The sounds of di...