I was myself.
So long ago and longer I consciously owned an eerie quality which toppled over the edge of my humanness.
And still own it.
[A helliad]
To-morrow
THIS noonday as I sat on the veranda two young lads stopped by the stone coping which borders this front yard, and conversed. One was eager-looking and about eleven years old. The other was perhaps thirteen and morose and he had a small rifle which he polished with a bit of waste, not lifting his gaze as they talked.
Said the younger boy: ‘Say-Frank, I could ’a’ had that old shot-gun off my dad if [I’d ’a’] went after it to Rocker that time.’
‘Like hell you could,’ said Frank.
‘Say-Frank, you know that Winchester o’ Billy O’Rourke’s?—he made six bull’s-eyes and one inside ring with it day ’fore yesterday.’