By Steve Weinstein
By Devon Maloney
By Tessa Stuart
By Alison Flowers
By Albert Samaha
By Jesse Jarnow
By Eric Tsetsi
By Raillan Brooks
Alice Probst, 53, a severe-looking woman, says to me, "May I come to you?" "Delighted," I say.
She tells me: "You remind me of an animal. A gerbil in a cage. There's too much on your plate, you're running in the wheel. They have cages with tunnels now. There is a way out." Thanks, Alice.
Later, I ask her, was it my scribbling notes in the dark that made her think I was gerbil-like? "No," she says. "Vibrations." Fair enough, Alice. My vibes make me see you as a tree sloth. How's that?
Reverend Nancy is on the steps out back having a smoke, still in her black robe. When a cemetery across the road is commented on for its beauty, she says, in a gravelly voice, "Beautiful, sure. But there's no one there, you know."