Men Had Always Been The Reciters Of

People Don't Write About Kids; You Have To Give Them A Lot Of Freedom, And That Causes Anarchy And That Causes Farce.

Over The Years, Confusing Fragments, Lost Corners Of Stories, Have A Clearer Meaning When Seen In A New Light, A Different Place.

He Will Hear The Rain Before He Feels It, A Clicking On The Dry Grass, On The Olive Leaves.

You Built Your Walls Too, She Tells Him. So I Have My Wall. She Says It Glittering In A Beauty He Cannot Stand. She With Her Beautiful Clothes With Her Pale Face That Laughs At Everyone Who Smiles At Her.

This Last Night We Tear Into Each Other, As If To Wound, As If To Find The Key To Everything Before Morning.