What can’t I see?

When I was young, I used to read novels. I read a lot.
And then I stopped. Probably because I wished
for something more, something better, something real.
Or maybe I just got lazy. But I have learned that a rug
is not exactly a carpet, that heroes also sometimes struggle
with continuity, and that keeping your shoes laced up
is never quite good enough. So when a drunk once asked me,
“What can’t you see at the end of that road?”, I said, “A shush
that drowned out the usual voice-over expressed expectations.”

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