There is a story. -- I cannot tell it. -- I have no words. The story is almost forgotten but sometimes I remember. The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women, of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. . . . The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified. He continually laughs. Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall, in half darkness by a window. That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is distilled in it. . . .
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