Stop Counting Several months had passed since that Yale-Dartmouth game, and sprawled in congested misery on Ross’ living room couch, I blew my nose for the thousandth time, wadding up the tissue and tossing it at the waste basket. I wasn’t even close, and it joined its counterparts on the floor. I should say
Beautful description of car headlights, partially hidden, but enveloping the house. Beauty in juxtaposition to tragedy.