I broke my life.

But childhood prolonged. It becomes a hell.

My eyes and hearing are supernormal. I weigh 129 pounds. You can see what a diet of beer and light wine has made of me.

Do you understand the stopgap quality of hatred and rage?

The bridge besides the bridge of sighs.

Listening to the prisoned cricket.

And the hissing hair.

To drink dark beer with Mrs. Grant at four in the afternoon, under an umbrella, is a pleasure and a comfort.

Another entire bottle? I don’t know—let me drink on that.

See, it erases memory, as in grief, but arouses desire. So begins the cycle.

Stella spells ill.

To hell with that poem!

Honeysuckle blows by the granite.