I executed that move perfectly, and
felt like an ace. Nothing anywhere moved.
I was reading Hart Crane, but the lady on
the waiting benches over there was reading
Barbara Cartland. Nothing seemed equal
or fair. Today, in the gypsy cemetery, I
found a 1939 photo, on a gravestone,
of the most beautiful girl in the world.
She had died at forty, I think, in 1939.
HEMMORAGE OF MALE ENERGY WW1