If you ordered a boxcar full of sons-of-bitches and opened the door and only found me inside, you could consider the order filled.

Haven't been able to update in ages, login problems.

Every time I look out the window to my right I see first, starting left, the tips of my bush which are small green on one side greener on the other elongated and oval, then a white kids size soccer goal which appears to lean slightly away from my seat and what I feel is the anchor point of my body, there is a squashed looking yellow ball huddled in the bottom back of the net, and closer now a section of tree which two squirrels occasionally use as a race track, lots of fence which actually has been visible for the entirety of the view but I didn't want to confuse you, from above the fence flowering branches and vines from an old woman's garden where once I saw a pair of thieves set up a ladder to climb into her second story window, and most importantly and contrastingly to the well tended garden past the fence I mentioned earlier I see a stump sprinkled with woodchips as if the tree had been cremated and its ashes were magnified and returned to its home. I miss the tree.

I really want to write an entire story like this. Would you call it Faulkner-esque? I mean, Faulkner-esque like The Sound and the Fury, which I finished reading a few weeks ago. I'm hoping for something different. Thoughts?