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But he could also recall a bleary-eyed, low-angle view of clothes strewn on the floor, in a bedsit apartment with no bed as such, just a foldout couch.
That felt as remote as his childhood, but something pushed him to keep fleshing out the details of the room. He could smell the ribbon, and he saw the box in which it had come, sitting on a shelf in a corner of a stationers, with white letters on a blue background, but the words they spelled out eluded him.
“My uncle was the youngest child of Robert and Sophie Morris,” Ryan continued.
He urgently needed to think about the way the loop in the “e” became solid black sometimes, prompting him to clean all the typebars with an old T-shirt dampened with methylated spirits.
If he didn’t think about it now, he was afraid that he might never have the chance to think of it again. ” he’d asked, peering at Adam from the hospital bed with that disconcerting vampiric longing that had grown more intense toward the end.
The glare from the pavement beneath the cloudless blue sky was merciless, but he kept the windows undimmed.
The venue was some kind of chapel-esque building that probably served as seven different kinds of meeting hall, and in any case was free of conspicuous religious or la-la-land inspirational signage.