Before what I assume must have been a diagnosed case of schizophrenia, Bob had sung opera.  Tiffany’s mom told us that: he used to work as a classical performer.  She told us this after yelling for us to ‘come inside, now,’ when Bob had begun chopping at his mother’s antique roses.  We’d been watching him from underneath the porch, and quickly relocated to her parents’ bedroom window, thus providing us with an even better, bird’s-eye view of the flying petals. 

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