E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

JANUARY SIXTH   Johnny's in the attic now, and the snow has started to cover the skylight with the slightest sound disappearing into silence. A bare bulb shines on an unlabeled box— a set of Pyrex tubes. He pulls one out, looks through the still clean glass at all the dust he's stirred up by digging around up here, seeking nothing in particular but whatever feeling he might find.   The air begins to summon back the Christmas cough that laid him up till New Year's Day. He pulls up the cord behind his Bauhaus lamp; out comes a badge that someone must have worn since he was a kid—or just held up to the light to see one corner of the star had broken off. And on the wall is Bogart— what's the use of a man in a fedora no one ever smiles to recall? He used to dream of repartee, of friendships that were beautiful enough to end.   There's a paisley cloth on Dad's old trunk, and the lid only opens ...