There's something dripping in my head. A heart, a heart in my head.
Over, over, there is a soft place in my heart for all that is over, no, for the being over, words have been my only loves, not many.
And truly it little matters what I say, this or that or any other thing. Saying is inventing. Wrong, very rightly wrong. You invent nothing, you think you are inventing, you think you are escaping, and all you do is stammer out your lesson, the remnants of a pensum one day got by heart and long forgotten, life without tears, as it is wept.
What kind of country is this where a woman can't weep her heart out on the highways and byways without being tormented by retired bill-brokers!
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