I could just remember how my father used to say that the reason for living was to get ready to stay dead a long time.
Caddy got the box and set it on the floor and opened it. It was full of stars. When I was still$$$ they were still. When I moved$$$ they glinted and sparkled. I hushed.
...I would think how words go straight up in a thin line$$$ quick and harmless$$$ and how terribly doing goes along the earth$$$ clinging to it$$$ so that after a while the two lines are too far apart for the same person to straddle from one to the other; and that sin and love and fear are just sounds that people who never sinned nor loved nor feared have for what they never had and cannot have until they forget the words.
Even sound seemed to fail in this air$$$ like the air was worn out with carrying sounds so long.
She wouldn't say what we both knew. 'The reason you will not say it is$$$ when you say it$$$ even to yourself$$$ you will know it is true: is that it? But you know it is true now. I can almost tell you the day when you knew it is true. Why won't you say it$$$ even to yourself?' She will not say it.
How do our lives ravel out into the no-wind$$$ no-sound$$$ the weary gestures wearily recapitulant: echoes of old compulsions with no-hand on no-string: in sunset we fall into furious attitudes$$$ dead gestures of dolls.
Who gathers the withered rose?
They all talked at once$$$ their voices insistent and contradictory and impatient$$$ making of unreality a possibility$$$ then a probability$$$ then an incontrovertible fact$$$ as people will when their desires become words.
She wasn't too big$$$ heroic$$$ what they call Junoesque.
When something is new and hard and bright$$$ there ought to be something a little better for it than just being safe$$$ since the safe things are just the things that folks have been doing so long they have worn the edges off and there's nothing to the doing of them that leaves a man to say$$$ That was not done before and it cannot be done again.