This is a story about a divorce. As much as I hate to admit it, nothing save the death of a child could rise above it as a monument to my life, a sociopath, who told me later her name was Diomayra. It has been fifteen years since she left. Four since she died.
I have always only been able to read a little at a time. I want hit hard, upfront, to get free. I work all day building or repairing or maintaining or purchasing that I go dry on the flow of words and days pass where day and night turn on
POTH STORY: a mother is dying. She is becoming delirious. As she nears death, she stares at her son, who she does not really recognize. She asks him who he is. He finds himself telling her that he is an angel sent to help her. He makes up a bunch
Yuh know.
STORY: A man trying to finance his rental house is told my his wife that he mishandled the process because the loan officer has not responded to any of his messages. She proceeds to insult him. But he knows that the loan officer knows that there is nothing to talk
