Murderers Are Not Monsters, They're Men. And

And My Sister, My Lindsey, Left Me In Her Memories, Where I Was Meant To Be.

I Loved The Way The Burned-out Flashcubes Of The Kodak Instamatic Marked A Moment That Had Passed, One That Would Now Be Gone Forever Except For A Picture.

At The Tips Of The Feathers There Is Air And At Their Base: Blood. I Hold Up Bones; I Wish Like Broken Glass They Could Court Light....still I Try To Place These Pieces Back Together, To Set Them Firm, To Make Murdered Girls Live Again.

But She Was Waiting Patiently. She No Longer Believed In Talk. It Never Rescued Anything. At Seventy She Had Come To Believe In Time Alone. ~pg 254

The Alcohol Had The Effect Of Making The Black Cloth Blacker. This Amused Her; She Had Noted In Her Journal: "booze Affects Material As It Does People.