I heard she sipped coffee on the beach, a fig leaf over her sex, and the natives began to suspect she were some sort of goddess, this woman in the metal bird: why, it deposited her like an egg, she exited like a flea, once the great beast belly-flopped.
Life tis but a dream, and some would trade and barter both yesterdays and tomorrows for the graceful repose of sitting among the frogs.
Backstage I was demonstrating the basic arm bar and hammer lock, and a few others, I forget how many for hungry eyes and ears, this new thing, and like the old Greeks, always a new thing for the learning. I always flubbed the punch-kick stuff; they said just make it look real, but after all the medical bills from my colleagues, the rule was somewhat hanging, suspended by its own weight.
If life were a dream, a like a sleepdream, a feverdream that carries away on its own whims, or a nice daydream? There were some to say that we were but the thoughts of God, and they paved that over saying we were just His daydream, an imperfect elapsation of time, and then I was reading that what comes from, inevitably returns, what is formed, takes an unforming and so forth, that there is no beginning, nor other points on the great line, if there be no sufficient ending, and science itself dictates a kind of accidental beginning, and science itself might precipitate that accidental ending, by its own love of knowledge and the learning and testing of new things.
She was browning like oven-bacon on the big towel, and you just knew there was a kind of sweet something under her, a kind of beginning of sweat, and here she was, 78 degrees in full sun, cooling coffee in her hand: a reward for those who earn least, and a dependence upon those most able: it made me want to feign a cause for it, maybe, to sort of exaggerate more than lie, make a real show of it.
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