Drawing by Sam Messer/Writing by Jonathan Safran Foer

The house shakes on a windless day. Three hundred, seventy odd pages in the sun surrenders to hallucinations. Someone cries, “People who don’t speak took me on a ride” and words spill through current—sound, air, light. Who catches them? Who churns them into butter? Where is the grout between twigs and leaves? The substance of safety? What is a house and why does it break?

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