The Model Home

An entire life of walking has created two parallel lines. Do they extend infinitely into the future, or do they abruptly end? I walked right into my friend’s dangerous loner model home. “The examined life is not worth living,” was his philosophy, although his mother shot herself on the stoop of the funeral home. He still tucked in his black sheets every morning, chatted with her about the neighbors. I was watching the endless weather channel wondering if we are blue-screened into this life and all we do is point at blank walls pretending we’re really somewhere else? If things were always just out of reach, what were we reaching for? My friend’s house with its black curtains ruffling in the wind. The exact same house being built up and down the street.