.. _I can almost look down the tracks and see you going but without
you, dearest, dearest, I can't see or hear or feel or think. Being
apart--whatever has happened or will happen to us--is like begging for
mercy from a storm, Anthony; it's like growing old. I want to kiss you
so--in the back of your neck where your old black hair starts. Because I
love you and whatever we do or say to each other, or have done, or have
said, you've got to feel how much I do, how inanimate I am when you're
gone. I can't even hate the damnable presence of PEOPLE, those people in
the station who haven't any right to live--I can't resent them even
though they're dirtying up our world, because I'm engrossed in
wanting you so._
_If you hated me, if you were covered with sores like a leper, if you
ran away with another woman or starved me or beat me--how absurd this
sounds--I'd still want you, I'd still love you. I_ KNOW, _my darling._
_It's late--I have all the windows open and the air outside, is just as
soft as spring, yet, somehow, much more young and frail than spring. Why
do they make spring a young girl, why does that illusion dance and yodel
its way for three months through the world's preposterous barrenness.
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