One humid summer night, after he had wrapped up a late-night painting session in the basement studio with her brother, he had spied her, the older sister, sleeping on the couch as he exited the bathroom on the main floor, thinking to himself in that unavoidable yet noncommittal pause that she looked like an angel from a Wim Wenders movie if the angels in Wenders' films had slept.
His daily life-experience was best described by a persistent thought which tried to filter its way through his head as he walked along Michigan Avenue, how each car in this morning's rush hour seemed to flow directly into him and disappear within the dark, echoing forests of his past instead of harmlessly passing by him, as if he were a portal from which nothing ever returned, though the image of every object hovered before his face, in his wide line of vision, as if on the event horizon of a massive black hole, making it difficult for him to see what was coming and where he was going.
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