Once crazy goes past acertain point, you're on a turnpike with no exit ramps. And you're a good one for a writer. It was nervous work. Headache weather, my mother would have called it, but theweather was due to change.
I could almosthear the sound of their guitars, the murmur of their voices andlaughter; I could almost see the gleam of their lanterns and smell theirbeef and pork frying. Now the rustling in the woods behind me sounds not like small animals (most of them would by then be nested or burrowed for the night,anyway) but approaching footsteps. There was now only the random swirling air coming inthrough the partially plugged kitchen window. God, she's thin, I thought.
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