In a blue series towards his sleepy eyes they slid like wonder, women tall & small, of every shape & size, in many languages to lisp `We do` to Henry almost waking. What is the night at all, his closed eyes beckon you. In the Marriage of the Dead, a new routine, he gasped his crowded vows past lids shut tight and a-many rings fumbled on. His coffin like Grand Central to the brim filled up & emptied with the lapse of light. Which one will waken him? O she must startle like a fallen gown, content with speech like an old sacrament in deaf ears lying down, blazing through darkness till he feels the cold & blindness of his hopeless tenement while his black arms unfold.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
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