The Story of Frank Sinatra

In the car, before going up on the third visit, you'd granted yourself a bitter kind of solace. You were able to find words to situate yourself in life, and he didn't seem able to do so at that moment. A purity of resolve sat behind your eyelids when you shut your eyes and let the sunlight purge through in a blood burst of warm red. It's not just the clean, hard facts that you understood in the car; almost anyone could have recited them. And then from there took over what was originally a unique story,. The artwork, his stone carved faces in the front yard, the view of the river from his back patio, his name,