But perhaps it was a little like this. “Wet!” “Not quite good enough.” “Mi-mi-mi-mi-ha-ha.” “Oh, come on...”—the interstices being filled with a long silence, by the howling of the wind, or what you will.
No chaos this time—it’s serious, this last “Lit”.—
Or perhaps the dependable, or rather, more dependable four were not all on deck: perhaps—perhaps—but then, Mr. Benson or Bukis can tell better than the enamored Egoist. Or perhaps Richard Cory—ask one of them if you would know.... It is of small moment now. Nothing matters any more. Nothing.—
“They are not long, the days of wine and laughter,
Love, desire, and hate:
I think they have no portion in us after
We pass the gate....”
We have passed the gate. “It is gone like time gone, a track of dust and dead leaves that merely led to the fountain.” Gone.
Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye, good-bye.