I Saw A Man Pursuing The Horizon

But I Like It Because It Is Bitter, And Because It Is My Heart.

A Very Little Boy Stood Upon A Heap Of Gravel For The Honour Of Rum Alley. He Was Throwing Stones At Howling Urchins From Devil's Row, Who Were Circling Madly About The Heap And Pelting Him. His Infantile Countenance Was Livid With The Fury Of Battle. His Small Body Was Writhing In The Delivery Of Oaths.

He Vaguely Desired To Walk Around And Around The Body And Stare; The Impulse Of The Living To Try To Read In Dead Eyes The Answer To The Question.

Such An Assemblage Of The Spraddle-legged Men Of The Middle Class, Whose Hands Were Bent And Shoulders Stooped From Delving And Constructing, Had Never Appeared To An Asbury Park Summer Crowd, And The Latter Was Vaguely Amused.

Every Sin Is The Result Of Collaboration.