March 14, 2012
Wheeling
Impossible to call them dead things, those lights in the sky. Don’t tell me about time; it is all now. * * * My Breton ancestor when still a girl ran away from the turnips and pig-yards of Saint-Perec, ran away to Paris but was caught by soldiers on the road and brought back to their service in the fort at Rennes. This cut-purse Jeannette, strumpet, clever enough not to die but you’d hardly call that living, to be bitch of the barracks— READ MORE >>
