Jul 30, 2019
he can almost hear the trees weep. the forest is grateful for the sacrifice. the air convulses like the beat of a heart. the wind rustles the leaves. the dennis woods feel alive, like they are going to consume them whole. it is a saturday night. horatio drapes himself over the leather couch. atwood is having a glass of whiskey across him. deer island is silent, as it always is. horatio thinks of the ominous presence of constellations in the sky, looking down on them. the darkness of the night seeps through the cracks into the house. horatio says, “we should have a bacchanal.”
