as many as glasses hold, up to the light, sounding so in the barrels of brandy, as it is, its bottles mottled in dirt. My unsteadiness is bed. To drink and drink in, fooly the body of this. The hard chord of one impulse. I pressed a sour pear to my mouth in spite of the evening’s arrangements.
Some darkness is understood, so swimming is possible, and the way out of it is not by slipping nor swallowing. I move like a machine, my insistence of silence so visible, there, there my mother and father at opposite ends of the house.