We, Her Children, Are Heroic, Dersperate.

All That Remains Of That Minute Is Time In All Its Purity, Bone-white Time.

It's Only Women Who Are Not Really Quite Women At All, Frivolous Women Who Have No Idea, Who Neglect Repairs.

It Has Been My Face. It's Got Older Still, Or Course, But Less, Comparatively, Than It Would Otherwise Have Done. It's Scored With Deep, Dry Wrinkles, The Skin Is Cracked. But My Face Hasn't Collapsed, As Some With Fine Feature Have Done. It's Kept The Same Contours, But Its Substance Has Been Laid Waste. I Have A Face Laid Waste.

To Love One Child And To Love All Children, Whether Living Or Dead -somewhere These Two Loves Come Together. To Love A No-good But Humble Punk And To Love An Honest Man Who Believes Himself To Be An Honest Man -somewhere These, Too, Come Together.

A Prolonged Silence Ensues. The Reason For The Silence Is Our Growing Interest One For The Other. No One Is Aware Of It, No One Yet; No One? Am I Quite Sure?