this story we cannot do without, and cannot retell. This evil eye we bought and cannot now resell so it accretes like the polyvinyl-chloride princesses on the sideboard. The horde of the inhuman, the bestial all, her vestal livery is but sick and green and none but fools do wear it. The birds sing but no longer mean it. The birds would sing and think it were not right. What sweet sorrow to persist within this disappeared world