. . .

“Now, to look at you, you must have a bustling, portly wife, and a limping dog; two drooling babies, Mr. Loggins, or one, or three; a fine collection of bottle-caps, is it? And second-place trophies in bowling? Cricket, maybe?  Golf? And you wonder, where did your life go, Mr. Loggins? Where did the magic go? Is this really how it was all supposed to be? You wonder, when did you die, Mr. Loggins? When did some janitor scrub out the flame in you and leave only some great lump to lay around behind?”

“What?” says Mr. Loggins. “My wife, I, my dog —”

Mr. Loggins glares at him.

“If you’ve been reading my files, Mr. Thomas —”

<< . . .

. . . >>