3288.
On the contrary, a boy like that would never be allowed to go to the
second floor, it was strictly a question of knowledge, and even more, a
question of aesthetic appreciation.
3289.
Mr. Embree, the owner of the bicycle junk yard, was also the owner of
another peculiar property. His dilapidated one story house of cracked
and pealing gray stucco sat in the middle of a lot covered with dirt
patches and weeds.
3290. His house was sat all by itself at the entrance to a large woods. The woods, were urban woods, the type at the edge of the city not yet touched by urban development. Woods that manage to continue to exist at the borders of urban areas might be said to be the exact opposite of those woods you find in their natural state.
3291. The woods behind Mr. Embree’s house were full of intersecting foot paths and a hundred years of accumulated trash. One could find both stoves and refrigerators, cars and trucks, pots and pans, and millions of broken bottles mixed in with broken bricks and cinder-blocks.
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