Why love some girl viewed from a train bent to a country well? The tongue remembers iron water cool on some long lost noon. “Why love the boy in a March field with his kite braving the sky? Because our fingers burn with the hot string singeing our hands. He can't let himself alone, won't let himself off the hook if he falls just a breath from grace.” A man with high standards, too, the least hair falls on him sometimes wilts his spine. I suppose it's thinking about trying to be good makes the crack run up the wall one night. You work twice as hard to be a farmer as to be his hog. For being good is a fearful occupation men strain at it & sometimes break in two. On the other hand, that unhappy, pale, put-upon man walking by, who looks all guilt & sin, why, often that's your good man with a capital G, Will. Hear a man too loudly praising others & look to wonder if he didn't just get up from the sty. Times come when troughs, not tables, suit appetites. And all men do love sin, Will, oh how they love it, never doubt, in all shapes, sizes, colors & smells. The seal-barker, the laugh-shouter, half the time he's covering up. There are smiles & smiles learn to tell the dark variety from the light.
“Sometimes the man who looks happiest in town, with the biggest smile, is the one carrying the biggest load of sin. ― Ray Bradbury, quote from Something Wicked This Way Comes It’s a long way back to sunset, a far way on to dawn, so you summon all the fool things of your life, the stupid lovely things done with people known so very well who are now so very dead – And wasn’t it true, had he read somewhere, more people in hospitals die at 3 A.M.
The moon rolls by to look at you down there, with its idiot face.
God, if you had strength to rouse up, you’d slaughter your half-dreams with buckshot! But no, you lie pinned to a deep well-bottom that’s burned dry. Sleep is a patch of death, but three in the morn, full wide-eyed staring, is living death! You dream with your eyes open. You’re the nearest to dead you’ll ever be save dying. But three, now, Christ, three A.M.! Doctors say the body’s at low tide then.
Five or six in the morning, there’s hope, for dawn’s just under the horizon. “Oh God, midnight’s not bad, you wake and go back to sleep, one or two’s not bad, you toss but sleep again.
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