Deal With Him, Hemingway!

He Asked Himself What Is A Woman Standing On The Stairs In The Shadow, Listening To Distant Music, A Symbol Of. If He Were A Painter He Would Paint Her In That Attitude. Her Blue Felt Hat Would Show Off The Bronze Of Her Hair Against The Darkness And The Dark Panels Of Her Skirt Would Show Off The Light Ones. Distant Music He Would Call The Picture If He Were A Painter.

Then Nuvoletta Reflected For The Last Time In Her Little Long Life And She Made Up All Her Myriads Of Drifting Minds In One. She Cancelled All Her Engauzements. She Climbed Over The Bannistars; She Gave A Childy Cloudy Cry: Nuee! Nuee! A Lightdress Fluttered. She Was Gone. And Into The River That Had Been A Stream . . . There Fell A Tear, A Singult Tear, The Loveliest Of All Tears . . . For It Was A Leaptear. But The River Tripped On Her By And By, Lapping As Though Her Heart Was Brook: Why, Why, Why! Weh, O Weh! I'se So Silly To Be Flowing But I No Canna Stay!

The Voices Blend And Fuse In Clouded Silence: Silence That Is Infinite Of Space: And Swiftly, Silently The Sound Is Wafted Over Regions Of Cycles Of Cycles Of Generations That Have Lived.

Drugs Age You After Mental Excitement. Lethargy Then. Why? Reaction. A Lifetime In A Night. Gradually Changes Your Character.

Phall If You But Will, Rise You Must: And None So Soon Either Shall The Pharce For The Nunce Come To A Setdown Secular Phoenish.