The Dripping Sink ( _______'s Husk)

The point of the _________ was to understand further what Fatherhood was. My son was just a son. My eyes just two, and empty. I didn't anticipate the following sequence; the moods between the beams of a Paris, Texas realm. __________  ________ was my professor that spring. __________ had the longest hair of all the women in the room most days. She wore hers in the low pony. Th'others wore top buns like morning breakfast pastries dripping with large egos that looked more like egg yolk if you ask me. I saw nothing but samurais. Fatherhood looked like the long end of a sword held suspended by my mother's gut. I wasn't fond of that side of her. It produced a somewhat unflattering anger within me. _________ was intrusive. But something in her salted corn husk hair bled me out of my feather bed, far further than the running water wore me down - the dripping sink. The fucking dripping sink.