When the terrible beauty of evening severs the last red rays into fractured fragments and scatters them like dewdrops over the needlebeds and flecks of spray on the river dance in fitful gasps of color the earth dies but her circulatory heat remains sleeping within. Under the blue gaze of night the sky has the shape of an eggshell speckled with stars and it is in this embryonic catacomb that the two together lie sometimes in sleeplessness and sometimes in hunger and many times in cold. The pain is of no importance. They are together and that is all that matters, and all that has ever mattered.
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