In The Country Of The Story The

I Would Have To Find Something Else To Bury Here And I Wished It Could Be Charles.

I Was Pretending That I Did Not Speak Their Language; On The Moon We Spoke A Soft, Liquid Tongue, And Sang In The Starlight, Looking Down On The Dead Dried World.

We Moved Together Very Slowly Toward The House, Trying To Understand Its Ugliness And Ruin And Shame.

He Is Altogether Selfish, She Thought In Some Surprise, The Only Man I Have Ever Sat And Talked To Alone, And I Am Impatient; He Is Simply Not Very Interesting.

So Long As You Write It Away Regularly Nothing Can Really Hurt You.