From where he lay on the sofa he could see out the window into the field. Arpeggiated poppies, each taller and redder than the last, led his eye from left to right. He rubbed his palm on the nap of the velvet. Something smelled like cinnamon. Mick Ronson played loud on the stereo in the other room. His mind slowed, stilled, and he drifted off to sleep, where he dreamed exactly the same thing.
©2020 Ben Greenman/Stupid Ideas
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