at this point in their lives, neither one of them is important enough to kill, kidnap, or interrogate.

Was going to go, Bitterness full,
Realize later, that this was all new,
Could not watch the game on the T.V,
Not until later when I find peace,
Came slowly home with head bowed down,
Still thinking of, of what words to say.

And again that big, bushy thing of hers worked its bloom and magic. It began to have an independent existence for me too. There was Germaine and there was that rose bush of hers.. I liked them separately and I liked them together.

It is early in November of 1942 and a simply unbelievable amount of shit is going on, all at once, everywhere.

Written By Neal Stephenson

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