In Her Way, She Was A Hard

God's Creatures Who Cried Themselves To Sleep Stirred To Cry Again.

Spaces Devoted To Hannibal Lecter’s Earliest Years Differ From The Other Archives In Being Incomplete. Some Are Static Scenes, Fragmentary, Like Painted Attic Shards Held Together By Blank Plaster. Other Rooms Hold Sound And Motion, Great Snakes Wrestling And Heaving In The Dark And Lit In Flashes. Pleas And Screaming Fill Some Places On The Grounds Where Hannibal Himself Cannot Go. But The Corridors Do Not Echo Screaming, And There Is Music If You Like.

I'm Doing One Of Three Things: I'm Writing. I'm Staring Out The Window. Or I'm Writhing On The Floor.

Ready When You Are, Sergeant Pempbry.

You Would Think Such A Day Would Tremble To Begin . . .