Personal Narrative-The Raven

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You were caught up in the elegant architecture, the bone-white arches and pale, thin columns, lit from below by hidden lights, and from above by a scimitar moon. Plain wooden benches were spaced evenly around the rectangular pool, where the blade of moon rippled. They engaged each other on one of those plain, flat benches. Her matchstick arms were no defense; her scream would not last long. Like a kite plunging to earth at the jerk of a string, Hood suddenly tumbled from his vision at the sound of Susan’s voice. Man, woman, and the murder were gone, and the Sunday New York Times swan back into view, along with the kitchen table, his second cup of coffee, and Susan herself. She had just stepped out of the shower, and untwirled…show more content…
The man remained motionless, his bald head glistening, his round stomach thrust forward. Hood was rocking back and forth on his knees. Night dissolved slowly into dawn; the Hudson River outside his window turned from black to gray, and a thick, heavy rain hammered on the glass. He held a James Dean, vulnerable tough-gay pose—three-quarter profile with a cigarette, slouched on a fire escape. I was jabbering about it for days. You seem to be insinuating something in a vague way. Outside, the sun was as yellow and happy as a child’s crayon creation; inside, Hood’s soul was a black ruined landscape of misery and fear. He sat there all morning watching a swag-bellied sky refused to rain. The story underneath was brief, saying only that the fire department had ruled out arson. The elevator clattered and groaned through its slow descent. It was precise and sweet, a rich embroidery of poetry and math, and Hood wandered when Susan had learned it. Billows of wet fog brushed against them, like huge, ethereal cows. Rows of headlights prowled an invisible highway a hundred yards

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