Part Won

Still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears. And other withered stumps of time were told upon the walls; staring forms leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed. Footsteps shuffled on the stair. Under the firelight, under the brush, his hair spread out in fiery points. Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

My nerves are bad tonight. Yes, bad. Stay with me. Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak. What are you thinking of? What thinking? What? I never know what you are thinking. Think.

I think we are in rats’ alley where the dead men lost their bones.

What is that noise?

The wind under the door.

What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?

Nothing, again nothing.

Do you know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember nothing?

I remember. Those are pearls that were his eyes.

Is there nothing in your head?

Oh that Shakespearian rag – it’s so elegant, so intelligent.

What shall I do now? What shall I do? I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street. With my hair down, so. What shall we do tomorrow? What shall we ever do?

If it rains play a game of chess, pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale filled all the desert with inviolable voice. And still he cried, and still the world pursues, “Jug Jug” to dirty ears.