The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. He could not promise that she would ever appear again in that house. They are used to me, they only cry because they have become so used to being here. The plank hung over his head. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. We aren't between him and heaven; he is between us and heaven. "Aye—to pretend to her that you don't care.
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