So what does it feel like to sell the place you grew up?
Where you woke up morning after morning, wondering what the day held? Where you fell asleep to Christmas lights flashing outside your window? Where you sat in the red pickup truck, rain spattering the windshield, until “Witchita Lineman” faded from the radio? Where you wandered beneath a summer Milky Way so close you could reach and touch it? Where your father shouted “Come right here! Watch this!” and you rushed in to watch helicopters fall from the decks of U.S. aircraft carriers off of Saigon? Where you and your mother laughed about politics on early mornings as the coffee kicked in? Where you whacked tennis balls for your favorite dog to chase? Where he and your other pets are buried? Where you sat outside on a cold night, alone and in total silence, smoking a cigar and feeling the ghosts whisper past?
A place that now only exists in photographs?
Something like this. Times ten. On acid.