I Think I Would Know Nora's Fart

What Birds Were They? (...) He Listened To The Cries: Like The Squeak Of Mice Be- Hind The Wainscot : A Shrill Twofold Note. But The Notes Were Long And Shrill And Whirring, Unlike The Cry Of Vermin, Falling A Third Or A Fourth And Trilled As The Flying Beaks Clove The Air. Their Cry Was Shrill And Clear And Fine And Falling Like Threads Of Silken Light Unwound From Whirring Spools.

I Was Happier Then. Or Was That I? Or Am I Now I? Can't Bring Back Time. Like Holding Water In Your Hand. Would You Go Back To Then? Just Beginning Then. Would You?

I Will Tell You What I Will Do And What I Will Not Do. I Will Not Serve That In Which I No Longer Believe, Whether It Calls Itself My Home, My Fatherland, Or My Church: And I Will Try To Express Myself In Some Mode Of Life Or Art As Freely As I Can And As Wholly As I Can, Using For My Defense The Only Arms I Allow Myself To Use -- Silence, Exile, And Cunning.

He Passes, Struck By The Stare Of Truculent Wellington But In The Convex Mirror Grin Unstruck The Bonham Eyes And Fatchuck Cheekchops Of Jollypoldy The Rixdix Doldy.

There Is An Atmosphere Of Spiritual Effort Here. No Other City Is Quite Like It. I Wake Early, Often At 5 O'clock, And Start Writing At Once.