And I hear that sane voice strangled by the hindrances of temporal emotions saying no you don’t you don’t understand her remembrances and it would be rhetoric if you did even though you will remember her voice and you will write it down.  You will write it down for this is your way of winning over time.  Your way of making peace with it.  For time is you in the measure of your consciousness and only treating it like a stranger do you become a stranger and then you don’t know yourself and are afraid taken all kinds of places in your mind and no sanguine future but that spurious enthusiasm dreaming your past and the lies it wants to tell you on a second and third look as you keep looking in a place that cannot find you.  This how you remember her voice in the ventilated dusk of a dry summer where even the dead flowers give no scent of potpourri as you stop to smell them in the memory of all that is dead just as her voice went on saying:  “Yes.  An old woman is prey when she ain’t got no man.  Where you can’t sleep at night with no fear of thieves at your door and even your last coin as an offering ain’t seen by the just and rewarded a place of esteem in heaven for all your tears… because don’t you know we all just want to be loved.  I wanted to be loved.  And you too listening hoping that what you listen to will be heard that someone will listen to all your confidences in my confidences what you perceive out of what I tell you today becoming your own story in how you tell it and who you tell it to not circumspect of why you’re telling them recognizing you in your eyes naked and vulnerable saying ‘Yes yes and a thousand times more Yes…’

“But then maybe I should begin at some sort of beginning and tell you about my brother and what happened with Dulcinea this some forty-three years back when all I got now is time to look back to when I had a man’s perception of me knowing my grace and beauty added to his world and he no fool as to what I was giving him what I deigned to give him in the bathos of my pleasure.  How I know as an old woman this nadir this paradox of disgust in temptations when you give in to what is tempted and this I see now in my brother Aaron’s aversion after he got what he wanted in his play of Hamlet succoring her into his room alone with his threats and sorrowful pleas of suicide for the gift of her love when even I know a suicide ain’t pleased or threatened by nothing except the thought of hell afterwards…  None of us knowing time after but what we know of it before creating our holography of the future and what we will see based on what we’ve seen with no promise of a fourth dimension.  For you can see the future and not change it.  No.  This I say no and a thousand times more no.  I will have no man and his empty promises the same promises you will make I’m sure when you seek some girl’s adoration but just let me tell you what an old woman feels so that maybe one day you will understand and to your reckoning of youth close the final door to time shutting out those wolves to what to you, now, is sacred but one day you will see how it’s got nothing to do with it how love’s got nothing to do with it.  How if it’s time at all it’s better to pay it no attention the negation bringing forth its full fruit.  The negation giving you what’s needed and what’s not wanted at all—a time without desire a time you’re not conscious of—what you become aware of when all the Yes’s and No’s don’t mean a thing to your happiness.  Your happiness not asking for these answers at all…

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