Millie Beggs, By The Time She Was

A Southern Moon Is A Sodden Moon, And Sultry. When It Swamps The Fields And The Rustling Sandy Roads And The Sticky Honeysuckle Hedges In Its Sweet Stagnation, Your Fight To Hold On To Reality Is Like A Protestation Against A First Waft Of Ether.

Most People Hew The Battlements Of Life From Compromise, Erecting Their Impregnable Keeps From Judicious Submissions, Fabricating Their Philosophical Drawbridges From Emotional Retractions And Scalding Marauders In The Boiling Oil Of Sour Grapes.

Nobody Has Ever Been Able To Experience What They Have Thoroughly Understood - Or Understand What They Have Experienced Until They Have Achieved A Detachment That Renders Them Incapable Of Repeating The Experience.

We Get Something To Do And As Soon As We've Got It, It Gets Us.

I Wish We Could Spend July By The Sea, Browning Ourselves And Feeling Water-weighted Hair Flow Behind Us From A Dive. I Wish Our Gravest Concerns Were The Summer Gnats. I Wish We Were Hungry For Hot Dogs And Dopes, And It Would Be Nice To Smell The Starch Of Summer Linens And The Faint Odor Of Talc In Blistering Summer Bath Houses ... We Could Lie In Long Citoneuse Beams Of The Five O'clock Sun On The Plage At Juan-les-pins And Hear The Sound Of The Drum And Piano Being Scooped Out To Sea By The Waves.