While she waited the ceiling swelled and swayed under the weight of something that seemed equally to press down on her and out from her. She imagined Bishop’s Fish, its skin “packed in like feathers.” She imagined pomegranites inside out and writhing beneath the neighbor’s floorboards. She imagined, for some reason, thousands of tennis balls, chewed within an inch of their shapes by foaming dogs. What is insulation, really? Swim bladders pinkening and blowing through the cracks? Outside the overhead wires lashed buildings like boats in a harbour, everyone gone ashore before the storm.
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