They Grew Fat And Happy--the Horses, Not

I Want Her To Melt Into Me, Like Butter On Toast. I Want To Absorb Her And Walk Around For The Rest Of My Days With Her Encased In My Skin. I Want.

... A Gaggle Of Old Ladies Is Glued To The Window At The End Of The Hall Like Children Or Jailbirds. They're Spidery And Frail, Their Hair As Fine As Mist. Most Of Them Are A Good Decade Younger Than Me, And This Astounds Me. Even As Your Body Betrays You, Your Mind Denies It.--there Are Five Of Them Now, White Headed Old Things Huddled Together And Pointing Crooked Fingers At The Glass.

Life Goes On With Fragile Normalcy.

They Grew Fat And Happy--the Horses, Not The Children, Or Marlena For That Matter.

I Don't Like Outlining, Because Books Are Organic Things. Sometimes A Book Doesn't Want To Be Written In A Certain Way.