I saw some racket around the time Seinfeld was coming on. I go outside to see Father sitting on the recliner, strumming a huge Chinese porcelain bowl like it was a guitar, vacantly looking at the floor. He looked like he wanted to talk to me again, but although I feel really bad, I couldn't stand any more of that shit he did last night. I just told him I'll take the photos of his painting tomorrow, and I retreated into my room.
Is he dying or something? Hope not.
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