Jesus' Son: Stories (Picador Modern Classics Book 3)

I didn’t want to go home. My wife was different than she used to be, and we had a six-month-old baby I was afraid of,

I dreamed I was looking right through my eyelids, and my pulse marked off the seconds of time.

And with each step my heart broke for the person I would never find, the person who’d love me.

How could I do it, how could a person go that low? And I understand your question, to which I reply, Are you kidding? That’s nothing. I’d been much lower than that. And I expected to see myself do worse.

But nothing I could think up, no matter how dramatic or completely horrible, ever made her repent or love me the way she had at first, before she really knew me.

But I was happy about this chance to be of use. I wanted to be the one who saw it through and got Mclnnes to the doctor without a wreck. People would talk about it, and I hoped I would be liked.

The three of us had formed a group based on something erroneous, some basic misunderstanding that hadn’t yet come to light, and so we kept on in one another’s company, going to bars and having conversations.