Rosewater Press

         The first two people I had over to my new house were childhood friends, one of whom I’ve known since the first day of preschool. His name is Sean. He's got a website much cooler than mine and a way with words easily surpassing my own. Some notion of his, delivered in an unassuming, unconfident deadpan, inevitably ends up stuck in my head whenever he drops by.           When he saw my house for the first time, all he had to say was, “this place feels like the American Dream”. Thus began a much longer tirade and in turn an incredibly long conversation, which I desperately wish I could recall more clearly. By the end of it we were sitting out on my deck repeating the phrase, “I was out here last night with a gun in my hand, a gun in my other hand, a gun in my mouth and also a cigarette and a joint in my mouth”. On the path between Point A and Joint B were tangents about the novel House of Leaves and the mysterious crotch-height window in my den. The only clear connective t