I have often felt before that it is only when one has
nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. The light of memory flashed in the man’s face. The sun was setting when she
carried the metal garbage can to the curb with their
remains in it, where they sat underneath the stale
chocolate cake that Sheila had thrown away and a pile of
mildewy lettuce. But his hand was withheld
by Thames. A few feet away, across the low vases of pink
and white roses, sat Annabel, more beautiful to-night perhaps than ever before in
her life. So, one day, because God was wroth, her mother ran away
with a blackguard, and died in the gutter, miserably. The way it had
happened was stupid, absurd. There was a round table covered, not
with the usual “tapestry” cover, but with a plain green cloth that went passably
with the wall-paper. All this was exciting and entertaining. I’m rather scornful.
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This video was uploaded to damaulifm.org on 04-07-2024 08:20:14