BEACON
The hoteliers have arrived from the clouds, taking
their cues from things I never see : a meadow in bloom,
some girls dancing lightly on the hearts of all men, a
cow chewing cud near a very bad fence. In this old
wreck of a building, Zelda Fitzgerald was kept for
a while. The State owns it now, and keeps it bare
and vacant. For no reason at all. It was once an
asylum, a sanitarium, a nuthouse for all - what
it is you whish to call. Before she was burned to
death in a different place, Zelda lived here. To
heal. To heel. To hell.
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