Parentheses Inside Or Outside Quotes

I drove out of Dartmouth and after a while Start Bay emerged out of the brightening gloom like the end of a set of parentheses in a book about the natural world. Inside the parentheses was a story about the sea. Outside them, the land: green, red and brown fields, and hills curling over the landscape. I saw small, delicate clumps of snowdrops, big rough patches of gorse, and along the thin road, houses with yellow roses and mimosa growing in their gardens.

Driving, dogs barking, how you get used to it, how you make the new streets yours. Trees outside the window and a big band sound that makes you feel like everything's okay, a feeling that lasts for one song maybe, the parentheses all clicking shut behind you. The way we move through time and space, or only time. The way it's night for many miles, and then suddenly it's not, it's breakfast and you're standing in the shower for over an hour, holding the bar of soap up to the light. I will keep watch. I will water the yard. Knot the tie and go to work. Unknot the tie and go to sleep. I sleep. I dream. I make up things that I would never say. I say them very quietly. The trees in wind, the streetlights on, the click and flash of cigarettes being smoked on the lawn, and just a little kiss before we say goodnight. It spins like a wheel inside you: green yellow, green blue, green beautiful green. It's simple: it isn't over, it's just begun. It's green. It's still green.