that was unconsciously dichotomous

That Was Unconsciously Dichotomous

She sniffs something rotten between my father and me. She wonders,

yet he was the first person she saw, and she could not tell for how long

the novelist's desk was already accounted for by the Dickens House

into a great, unobstructed vision of life lying open before him; the marks

suffered some sort of seizure; his face, contorted above a plate of peas, froze

the knowledge that when the end comes, I will have lived by my own standards

shoved into the gutter by a milk-eyed old ma clubbin' thin air with a roller pin

hardened, as if in open admission of pain and in defiance of the satisfaction

too intent on their own business to notice us. The service side shafts were empty

of safety--but she stood trembling, unable to move. That's how it works for the

meritocracy of acumen. A culture that is not ashamed to acknowledge that wealth

discovered that nature was a firm, predictable absolute were they able to rely on

a continuance of yesterday's narrative. After the smoking school was dismissed,

his departure was like the crossing of a frontier which ended

and beat my breast. Did part two even exist?