The stairs creaked as Mark rushed down them. “For your own sake, let me beg of you not to stay for a moment. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry. ” He took a quick step forward. The small bed’s hospital corners had been put into disarray by Michelle’s crying fit. ‘Gammon. “Looooo-ceeeeee!!” He yelled, sounding like Desi Arnaz. The sing-song girl, her fiddle broken, was beating her forehead upon the floor and wailing: Ai, ai! Ai, ai! Spurlock—or Taber, as he called himself—sat slumped in a chair, staring with glazed eyes at nothing, absolutely uninterested in the confusion for which he was primarily accountable. His gray eyes were closed, his persimmon-colored lips open and panting.
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