Poor Strangers, They Have So Much To

We Moved Together Very Slowly Toward The House, Trying To Understand Its Ugliness And Ruin And Shame.

Fate Intervened. Some Of Us, That Day, She Led Inexorably Through The Gates Of Death. Some Of Us, Innocent And Unsuspecting, Took, Unwillingly, That One Last Step To Oblivion. Some Of Us Took Very Little Sugar.

It Was One Of Those Winter Days That Suddenly Dream Of Spring, When The Sky Is Blue And Soft And Clear, And The Wind Has Dropped Its Voice And Whispers Instead Of Screaming, And The Sun Is Out And The Trees Look Surprised, And Over Everything There Is The Faintest, Palest Tint Of Green.

In The Country Of The Story The Writer Is King.

We Were Going To The Long Field Which Today Looked Like An Ocean, Although I Had Never Seen An Ocean; The Grass Was Moving In The Breeze And The Cloud Shadows Passed Back And Forth And The Trees In The Distance Moved.