[ The room looks empty. The creepy art—an image repeated in black and white, in color, sketched, smeared and painted—only contributes to it. He remembers meeting with old folks who'd talk his ear off about crochet and cats and book club intrigue. Grandkids, always. That chatter, the clutter of their houses—he misses it suddenly and acutely. ]
Yeah. I'm new. [ Jimmy's expression skews commiserating. It crosses his mind—he could say anything, anything at all. He could've come in here claiming to be this the man's long-lost son. But that'd be like ransacking a burned-down house. ] Jimmy.
[ He offers his hand, the multitude of lighthouses making him feel like he's reaching out to an island. ] Sorry I can't tell you anything about yourself, if that's what you were hoping for.
no subject
Yeah. I'm new. [ Jimmy's expression skews commiserating. It crosses his mind—he could say anything, anything at all. He could've come in here claiming to be this the man's long-lost son. But that'd be like ransacking a burned-down house. ] Jimmy.
[ He offers his hand, the multitude of lighthouses making him feel like he's reaching out to an island. ] Sorry I can't tell you anything about yourself, if that's what you were hoping for.