A Raisin in the Sun
Warning/Notes: Grim fic to suit my current mood, with a nod to Langston Hughes. The poem may be read in its entirety here: http://www.cswnet.com/~menamc/langston.htm.
Had it all started with the book?
He couldn't remember where he'd gotten it, now. It had been too long. And he couldn't remember what had drawn him to this field of study and couldn't remember why he'd persisted - why he'd stayed.
Why had he stayed?
It didn't matter now. Nothing mattered now.
The leather-bound monograph sat on his desk. If he opened it, the pages would fall apart to reveal the picture of the primitive sentinel.
How many times had he pored over that picture, dreaming?
What happens to a dream deferred?
A noise drew his eyes.
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