Somewhere in my hazy memory, that several-years-ago, tired-from-driving, is-this-really-real memory, there is an octagonal house. It's someplace in the Midwest, though I couldn't name the state, somewhere on a back road. I used to drive past it every so often, going from a point A I can't recall to a point B equally forgotten. But the other day I was in Portland, and I remembered I'd read that there was an octagonal house here too. And then I saw it, on Route 66 right before the bridge; I must have passed it so many times before without even seeing it.
And that's not even the best part. There is another octagonal house just next door.
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