I am, at the moment, seated. On a stump in the forest, listening. Ireland and Scotland are remote, Wales is not near. I will rise, soon, to hold the ladder for you.

Tombs are scattered through the tall, white beanwoods. They are made of perfectly ordinary gray stone. Chandeliers, at night, scatter light over the tombs, little houses in which I sleep with the already-beautiful, and they with me. The already-beautiful saunter through the forest carrying plump red hams, already cooked. The already-beautiful do not, as a rule, run.

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