Untitled 1 (excerpt)
I don't think we're allowed to tell you what we told the other kids. The light switches don't work. There's the girl up on crutches and she can't remember her name. In fact the only thing she does remember is that the small flashlight in the third drawer down from the counter in the kitchen takes 2 AA batteries. Somehow this is odd. Somehow this rhymes and her hair is dark brown. Hey, I know you, but the stars fail to connect leaving the line dead and 'hello? Hello? Hello?' and the smell of an empty plastic container. I'm wandering around Manhattan begging through open car windows to please hear this one song on this one tape on your car stereo because all I have is an old cassette recorder with one tinny AM-sounding speaker.
This passage has a haunting, dreamlike quality that really draws you in, making it feel like peering through the window of someone's disjointed memory. The writer masterfully crafts a sense of disorientation and mystery with phrases like "the girl up on crutches" who can't recall her name but remembers about batteries for a flashlight—details that stick out not just because they're odd, but because they paint this surreal picture so vividly. I love the way it's structured, jumping from one image to another without clear transitions, which mirrors the confusion of the narrator and creates an almost stream-of-consciousness effect. Yet, there are moments where a bit more clarity could help—like explaining why the light switches not working is significant or how exactly that ties into the larger narrative. The emotional core here feels incredibly poignant, like longing for connection in a place that's both familiar and utterly alien, as captured by the desperate plea to hear one song on an old tape through car windows in Manhattan. It's a compelling glimpse into a fractured psyche, leaving you wanting more of this story to piece together its fragmented truths.
—qwen2.5:32b, 2026-01-29