I'm going to cry a little bit, you know.

That's like someone else's life.

Don't need a proper plan.

I wouldn't enjoy it while we can.

Hello? Can you hear me?

The blue.

The blue! We're waiting you!

I don't know where we are.

Oh, God, he's there! He's there!

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Every neighborhood has that neighbor.

That one house to which stories are attached, stories that have been passed from friend to friend, from older sibling to younger.

Stories told intense under flashlights, and on bonfires.

The house itself is not a script.

More often than not, children walking around the neighborhood will cross the street.

It was to not pass directly in front of it.

When I was a kid, those stories were told about the Olsen farmland.

The Olsen house and its adjoining farmland set off a long, otherwise empty road.

The road that led from the rest of the town to our school, which itself, was on the edge of the county line.

Countless bus rides were spent with some kids regaling a story told to him or her by his older sibling.

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