Frigid in vibrating daylight, with no distinction between indoors and out.  Ailene on the gurney asked her children, Am I dying? and received a coward’s answer.  How she eyed the ward, panicked, more alive than ever.  Once a lounging   teenager, biting the brush end of her braid, the lattice more alive than ever with carnations.   Braised rabbit hunted that morning, not sleeping, no indeed, beneath silver.  Relieved of instinct.     Retold in a tempo to correct the grievous echo.

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