D. Beech and J. Beech

Some layering is required and some combination of these people.

Maybe I did not make it refreshing enough.

Her robe has the usual fringe of snakes. She wears a wristwatch and a cheap hairclip which was a hairclip over one hundred years ago!

The whole idea is that there is the pattern. The pattern-work in the woman’s head is her attitude, now worn, the upper edge of which breaks through, which meanders, which makes conversational gestures.

She could well belong to a mythological land­scape against a deep pinkish orange background—or if she belongs to you—I hope you can restore her beauty.

The man or boy, he used to sit there in the morn­ing. She would put a coverlet on him and she would pet him and she would kiss him.

Both of these people have ears which are just wrong.

It occurred during this phase yesterday that their rough tongues seemed to be merely pegged on.

It seems they live in a lush era.

He has already had his best day, the man has. The woman, she has not yet.

Now then, her hand—flat—she must do as oth­ers do.

If the two of them have really ever been tender with one another, these people, this morning, will be so mythological as if not to be yet beyond belief.