Monroe would lock the whole group of us in the basement, every day. Dinner was quite uneventful. Somewhere in the world would be his people, perhaps his mother; and it might soften the bitterness, of the return to consciousness if he found a woman at his bedside. She crawled into her small bed, dizzy with the thoughts of him, of kissing him. But here it is China. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing.
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