the weibo, our father, fell in boston and kept falling through atlanta. he had no job, no money, nobody to lean on, and a list pending on his property. down and down until he landed in those washouts in shenandoah, up there with his father and his father's people come from. the same place where george and i ended on november 8, 2000, the first exit outside of lexington. when i looked down at my feet, and see by magic, black and terrible, the zip disk line checked and spattered in the gravel with george's blight upon it, and i gaze up at the sky and say, please god, do not make me carry this, still make me be responsible, let my brother be alive, i require it of you. i compel you because if he is not, and if i'm responsible, and the universe is intolerable and i return my tidbit. that the sky was empty and return no answer and here i am still holding and george is gone and i still miss him as i sit wondering who i am and who we were and how different we were from other families and their stories. outside of the bell curve, out of hailing distance altogethe