Valentine's Day 2022: Poe, Edith Wharton, and Sherwood Anderson.

"make the most of your time, while you have rosebuds." -they told me, on the precipice, the free-standing edge of corporeal being, a temporary vortex.

Sherwood Anderson's group of unsavory-types, working stiffs, as it were, and pastor thrown in for good measure, berating himself and looking at a reading girl through the window.  She good nude and he forgot himself.

Edith Wharton wrote of a cruel prank played on a rather ditzy friend, as we all have ditzy friends, and are sometimes in fact, ourselves, considered by someone under the velvet scarsdale, to be, the ditzy friend.  A letter sent to the ditz, that some NBA player that she hadn't slept with yet kept one of her instagrams as a phone wallpaper.

She was enraptured, perhaps, but the narrator saw no sign, and thought it hilarious.

Many moons and cymbal booms later, the ditz was nothing but a single mother, and the narrator recounted the tale, partly in triumph over the lamentable ditz, but partly, I guess, pity.

But the situation turned.

The fake love DM had been returned to the husband by the Ditz, narrator not knowing, and the narrator admitted they had met in secret.

The single mother part.  The baby?  The narrator's husband the sire, and that peculiar issue tearing the soul out of the self-righteous narrator, proud and ever so haughty, as of the set that Jay Gatsby was trying to get into, and just like the Daisy he was trying to get into.

There was a boy in Winesburg, Ohio that took up writing for the local media, having a knack for the written word, at first.  Such is the way, you know, but do they care about the local community?  It keeps me out of the post, that so much of what elapses, transpires, transgresses, and perspicates doesn't hold my interest, except maybe that the Creech girl makes good cheesy potatoes.

The novelty of love, of time, and marked by dreams and visions, desires, something in the popular conscious.

Always time-stamped, it seems, clouded and perhaps corrupted by other happenings of the time, be it an industrial boom, or a doldrum or something.

Pockmarked by the age in it which it is conceived and then too, when it is realized.

To the time, to make the most of its maidens, while there are rosebuds.

To the IH to eat topsoil and crap money, while it may, that there are rosebuds, and maidens, and a long good night encapsulates, blanketing all in silence.

"She wished only to be supported, loved,

and in fondness seen,

in that good Society"

Hill, that is.

Gas stations that serve food;

as many churches as there are people.

Ripsh*t and bust d*ck, you know.

Looking in her window, she was reclined on the bed, and it made him inclined, having a fit of religious fervor in which his bespangled, buttfuddled Theologically trained brain, burst into poetry.

Sherwood Anderson, then, did not invent the popular trope of the bad-guy Preacher, but he worked one that had a human moment in which the "singular experience" flowed through God, God and a woman, a kicked-in a window on a woman in her stockings.

The character had forgot himself, in this rapture.

And the boy, to write for the post, and the singularity, and the precipice of a temporal vortex.

Gatsby tried to pick a rosebud from someone else's garden, and took a swan dive into his own water feature.  He made the most of his heart-doings while their was money, as was the upward-push that beguiled some of the men like Hemingway and F. Scott, the upward-push and the somewhat-fantasy of a life of ease.

"Oh I sent him a message back, and we did meet.  So its okay.  But I have my daughter in my life, as a nice little reminder."

"No harm, done, then."

About of the old Edgar Allan Poe, then:

"Who saw thee on that bridal day,

    When that deep blush would come o'er thee,

Though happiness around thee lay,

    The world all love before thee."

Or yet, the most of the page, while there is still, ink:

"And I said--"She is warmer than Dian:

  She rolls through an ether or sighs--

  She revels in a region of sighs:

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

  These cheeks, where the worm never dies

And has come past the stars of the Lion

   To point us the path to the skies--

  To the Lethean peace of the skies--

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

  To shine on us with her bright eyes---

Come up through the lair of the Lion,

  With love in her luminous eyes."