2. J.
stepped out of the basement and into the scalding Roman son to Lucia’s
house. In the overhanging linden trees,
drooping over the disjointed and crumbling sidewalk like a concealing mask of
greenery, hide a disfigured face which was the sky; cicadas called out in
rising shrills. A group here, cluster there, interspersed among the verdant
canopy, like guerrillas hidden in some jungle, they seemed to
sing: SO SO SO SO, without
variation. Their only melody it was
true, but everyday it seemed to J. to covey some new statement of metaphysical
truth uttered in a single, long syllable.
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