The Revenge

She sat in a chair and looked `out a window to think sad thoughts and to weep. Everything she saw out the window was either richly gleaming or glittering, owing to a supernatural effect. But she was not un­used to this. She unlocked the front door. An infini­tude of catastrophes was, as usual, apace—even as she walked out to the road. The ground was mushy from a recent rain. Her mind was not changing. Her mind had not changed in years. Somebody’s head­lights were blinding her. Her idea of a pilgrimage or of a promenade excited her. She was stalking, going swiftly down the avenue. She arrives at a plausible solution for at least 8 percent of her woes. I know what she is thinking, and am envious of her. But I am shitting on it.