Likewise Jane who calls from her closet of walnut and silk for her widower to stroke her breasts, her feet, although she has no breasts, she has no feet, exacting pity in their big white bed. Her grandson, by himself in the house, drags a chair over to that spot, climbs up and just touches his tongue to the mark, and in its salt and faint taste of cinnamon a hundred bright occasions return to him. With his eyes shut and his tongue pressed to the wood, he can feel the house unfurl its wings, rise up and glide over the fields of wheat and small farms like a horned owl from the branch of a dead tree. His heart quickens with excitement. For someone else, this thirst that claims a single drop's hand-held mirror facing the sky.
Any body can die, evidently.
Few Go happily, irradiating joy, Knowledge, love. Most Need oblivion, painkillers, Quickest respite. The perch was on the roof, and the puck was in the air. The diffident were driving, and the daunted didn't care. When I came out to search for you the lauded hit the breeze On detonated packages the bard had built to please.