2001-07-15 - 3:54 p.m.

The wrong of unshapely things is a wrong too great to be
told;
I hunger to build them anew and sit on a green knoll apart,
With the earth and the sky and the water, re-made, like a
casket of gold
For my dreams of your image that blossoms a rose in the deeps
of my heart.

My partner in crime brings me solace. She can still whisper. I will listen. Her voice calls out to me above the gnashing of teeth.
You are not Job; this be no Elsinore.

I have built myself my own internment camp. I no longer protest. The gates are generous widely. I can dress in fades. I feel no chill. I am alone. I have no one to catch me when I fall. But my arms are still receptive to the signals. Wherein lies the protest?

I have no Dorothea, no Sue Bridehead; nor Horatio - nor Alsace-Lorraine, nor Schleswig-Holstein. And Venice? Florence - a room with a view? I do not know where to begin. I don't know what to do. If we grasp our own identity in companionship's penumbra - why am I surprised? 'This has nothing to do with happiness...'. Yes, yes. Enough.

Who are you, Bradley Pearson?

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